


Kings of the Sea

by Gia279



Series: Strange Young World [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Laura, Elves, Gore, Horror, Long Distance Pining, M/M, Magical Apocalypse, Nuclear Apocalypse, Plot Driven, Post Apocalypse, Seperation, Slow Build, Stilinski Family Feels, Survival, Violence, Witch!Stiles, boat travel, creature horror, mutated Peter, mutations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:33:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 86,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25654450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gia279/pseuds/Gia279
Summary: “Where did you come from?” Stiles barked. He couldn’t fight the ocean or the storm, but he could fight her.Her mouth curled up in a smirk. “You guys need a ride or what?”Stiles looked at her again; she was a creature he hadn’t encountered before and gave off heat like a furnace, almost steaming in the rain. “Yeah,” he said before he could think better of it. “We could use a ride. Where-”She whistled sharply. “Rip!” she shouted, then looked at John, her dark eyes sweeping down to the embroideredSheriffon his shirt. She smirked again. “’Scuse me, Sheriff,” she said, and swept him into her arms.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: Strange Young World [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1703503
Comments: 180
Kudos: 299





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know I said mid-August but I missed posting so I figured, hey, what the hell. 
> 
> Anyway, a **warning** for this one: the Hales and Stilinskis are still separated, traveling separately. So I tagged it slow build to give everyone that warning; it'll be a while before they find each other again, and like usual, the story is plot driven. I was super nervous to share this because of that so I hope you enjoy it anyway! 
> 
> Also still working on descriptions so apologies if it's clunky!

The sand was wet and sucking, pulling at their boots with every laborious step, and rain fell in a fine mist, turning the air gray, like a grainy photo. The ocean roared beside them, churning and dangerous, waiting for them to take one wrong step to sweep them out beyond help.

The seal was big and awkward, its slick skin turned a blueish hue from the bombs. It had oversized teeth dripping with a viscous green fluid that Stiles was sure was venom. 

Beside him, John slipped, going down with a breathless curse. The sand molded around his splayed hands until he was sunk in to the wrist. 

The seal lunged.

Stiles twisted in a panic and flung his hands out.

For a moment, it looked like the spell wouldn’t work; the seal’s discolored flesh bulged, then shrunk before it collapsed in on itself like it was decaying in fast forward. 

His magic lit up inside like a Christmas tree. 

John looked up, breathing hard, and blinked rain out of his eyes. “Never seen that spell before.”

Stiles nodded, gulping as he pulled John to his feet. “Been practicing. It’s less messy than the others.” He brushed a hand over his eyes and stepped back from the crumbling bones of the seal. His boot came down with a splash. 

John cursed quietly. “Water’s rising.” 

Stiles shuddered; he’d always had a healthy fear of the ocean and this one was even more wild and unknowable than the comparatively tame beaches he’d visited in California. The water was creeping up on them like a hunting predator, already up to their ankles and rising fast. Stiles looked around, but there was nowhere to go.

“Rocks,” John grunted, yanking Stiles by the elbow.

There was a gradual rise of rocks a few yards away, like an uneven stairway to nowhere. 

“That won’t do much for long,” Stiles said, but he was already running.

The rocks were black with the rain and slick, with jagged edges and gray veins cutting through it. Stiles locked his fingers together and boosted John up onto one of the taller bits, then scrambled up after him, swearing as his boots slipped. Having a higher vantage point only made it clearer how screwed they were. The water was rising frighteningly fast, churning just below their tiny island. The scent of fish and wet sand permeated the air, that sting of salt water and decaying seaweed that always seemed to float around the beach. 

Stiles flexed his fingers, staring at the rising water. He had to do something, or they were both going to drown. He flicked his hands out at the water, a testing little burst of magic.

Ice formed a slick surface over the churning water, spiraling out in thick rings around their rock, spreading with each push Stiles gave it. 

He turned to John, an order to run already on his lips, when a sharp _crack!_ cut him off. His heart fell as he looked to the ice. The surface shattered, crumbling into gleaming shards, pulled under the surface in seconds. 

Stiles swore under his breath, glancing over at John, who’d gone pale. He held his hands out in front of him, shooting tongues of fire down into the water. It hissed and spat steam, but it only cleared the space in front of them for moments before the ocean was rushing back in to fill the space. He clenched his jaw and thrust his fists out.

The water reared back like a frightened horse, rising above their heads and casting a shadow before splashing back down.

Thunder rumbled overhead and the gentle, misting rain turned into a downpour that only spurred the ocean to greater heights. 

Stiles licked his lips. “Okay, I can—I can get us out of this.” He looked around, flinching as lightning flashed. “I can put a shield around us,” he offered lamely. “When the water reaches us.” He turned to the other end of the rock and opened his hand, palm out, until the rock sizzled with heat, embers bubbling along the surface to keep the water at bay. It rose in spiraling plumes of steam, like it was angry he wouldn’t let it consume them. 

“Air?” John asked tersely. 

Stiles clenched his fists. “It’ll expel the water, but I’m not sure.” Half of his words were lost to the next violent crack of thunder. The wind tore at their clothes, stirring the water up further, sloshing it over their feet in great, heaving waves. Something heavy splashed a few yards away. The water had risen so only the very surface of the rocks they were perched on were exposed. 

Thunder boomed so powerfully that Stiles wondered how they were still on their feet. 

A papery rustle came from behind them, just delicate enough to be audible over the primal sounds of the storm.

Stiles whipped around. His left foot shot out from under him, almost toppling him into the water that seemed to be lifting greedy hands to drag him into the depths. 

The woman in front of him snatched his wrist, yanking him back to his feet. Her palm was hot against his wet, chilled skin, and she was wearing tough, patchy clothes already soaked through in the rain, with dark hair plastered to her head. She let go of Stiles and grinned wide, then laughed as she looked around. “Oh, man, you guys are screwed, huh?”

“Where did you come from?” Stiles barked. He couldn’t fight the ocean or the storm, but he could fight her.

Her mouth curled up in a smirk. “You guys need a ride or what?” 

Stiles looked at her again; she was a creature he hadn’t encountered before and gave off heat like a furnace, almost steaming in the rain. “Yeah,” he said before he could think better of it. “We could use a ride. Where-”

She whistled sharply. “Rip!” she shouted, then looked at John, her dark eyes sweeping down to the embroidered _Sheriff_ on his shirt. She smirked again. “’Scuse me, Sheriff,” she said, and swept him into her arms. She let out a wild laugh and jumped straight up in the air.

Stiles’s head whipped back, hands lifting in panic.

The woman and John nearly plunged into the tumultuous waves before enormous copper wings snapped out from behind her, edged with scales and stretched with membrane like a bat. 

Stiles only had time for one, breathless oath before an arm like an iron bar slammed across his ribs. He jerked in panic as his feet left the rock. 

“Don’t kick!” an incredibly annoyed voice snapped in his ear. 

He turned his head and squawked at the sight of gray and black wings sprouting out of the spine of the man holding him. He looked at the guy again, panting with terror.

His hair was slicked down with rain as well, but he didn’t look nearly as amused by the situation as the woman. 

Stiles sucked in a breath—as much of one as he could with the man gripping his lungs like a stress ball—and asked, “Are you a phoenix?”

“No idea,” the guy muttered. “Be quiet, I’m concentrating.”

“On _what_?”

“Flying!”

They dipped toward the water, close enough that Stiles’s boots touched it before they soared back up, the water rippling with the force of the man’s down strokes. 

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut, sure he’d be sick due to the jerky up and down motion. He guessed there weren’t any drafts he could catch or however it worked. 

They thumped down hard.

Stiles yelped, stumbling as the guy let go of him. The ground was solid underfoot, though it took his spinning head a moment to understand he was standing on the deck of a boat. He looked around, twisting until he spotted John, bent over his knees but in one piece. He relaxed slightly and took a second to observe the rest of the boat. 

It looked uneven somehow, like pieces of different boats had been melded together to form this monstrosity. The taffrail was composed of metals of different colors, welded together unevenly, and the deck itself had been repaired, it seemed, with different types and shapes of wood. It was spacious and clean, though, and propelled by makeshift sails which soared overhead in a patchwork of colors.

It was also noticeably dry under the storm. 

“Ari!” the man who’d carried Stiles shouted. “This spell is only going to last so long.”

The woman by John waved her hands. “We’re moving, aren’t we? Hey, you doin’ okay, Sheriff?”

Stiles scrambled over to them. 

John straightened up. “I’m fine. Just more used to Southwest,” he joked weakly.

She grinned. “We hope you enjoyed your flight today with Arizona Airlines, please enjoy your trip.” She swept a hand out to encompass the ship.

Stiles rubbed his arms. He was still dripping wet and just short of shivering, his clothes hanging heavy with rain. “How are you keeping it dry?”

“Our witch did a spell, but it probably won’t last much longer.” She pulled her hair over her shoulder, wringing it out. “So you guys were kind of in a mess, hmm?”

“We got pinned between the ocean and a seal,” Stiles muttered. He was gratified when Ari winced, as if she’d encountered a seal or two herself. “The water started rising before we could retreat.”

She snorted. “Yeah, it does that.” She set her hands on her hips. “Well, we’re on our way to pick up the other half of our crew. They’re on land at the moment, getting some supplies. We can drop you guys off somewhere if you’d like.” As she spoke, Stiles noticed people moving around the deck, striding quick and purposeful, undisturbed by the two new additions.

A man swept by with a mop, clicking his tongue impatiently at the puddles surrounding them. “A mess every damn time, Ari.”

She winced. “Sorry, Alden.” She glanced at John and Stiles. “This is Alden, he cooks for us. And cleans up after us sometimes.”

Alden was probably in his mid-forties, with buzzed but somewhat uneven blond hair and deep, dark brown eyes set in a sharp-boned face weathered either by time or life on a boat in the apocalypse, warm fawn skin and smile lines dug around his mouth. He shook John’s hand, then Stiles’s, and Stiles realized with a pang that he was a werewolf. 

Ari pointed at the guy who’d carried Stiles. “That’s Ripley, that’s Rosalva-” a woman with braided brown hair over her shoulder, leaning on the taffrail— “that’s Nadine-” a woman with ice white hair that stood out stark against her rich umber skin, holding court over an unsteady card table— “and Jamel.” A young man with short black twists, leaning around Nadine’s shoulder and running a long finger down the paper she was writing on. 

“I’m John, and this is my son, Stiles.” He squeezed Stiles’s shoulder.

Alden’s eyes widened. “Son?”

“Yes,” Stiles said slowly.

“Sorry, it’s just—you’re lucky,” Alden hurried to explain.

Ari pursed her lips. “Yes.” She looked over John and Stiles. “Come on, we’ve got a room you guys can use to get cleaned up, dried off.” Another smirk curled up the corner of her mouth, in what Stiles was realizing was a typical expression for her. “We have showers.”

Stiles just stared at her for a minute. “Excuse me?”

She tilted her head at him, smirk still in place.

“How?” John demanded. 

“A system Jamel and our witch Asher set up. And, of course, I keep the water heated.” She splayed her hand, fingertips glowing red-orange.

Stiles shook his head. “How?”

“Just a talent.” She winked. “Come on, let’s get you out of those wet clothes, Sheriff.”

John shot Stiles a look of mingled amusement and disbelief as they followed her to a shadowy metal staircase.

“This started as a ladder, but people kept slipping so we tore out stairs from a ship we found abandoned a while ago.” There were candles stuck to the walls, which lit as Ari passed them. “Here. Bathroom is right next door. Alden will bring some food here while you guys get cleaned up, if you want.”

John cast an uneasy glance around them, then the room Ari had opened to them. “We can probably handle that ourselves.”

She shrugged. “Suit yourselves. If you need more blankets or something, let us know.” 

Stiles lifted a brow. “You running a hotel?”

She bared her teeth in a grin. “I figure it’s tough enough out there, and besides that, you’re on my boat. It’s not like you’re gonna steal our blankets.” 

John snorted. “Yeah, that’s true. But we’ve noticed kindness is hard to come by without strings attached lately. You can’t expect us to trust you blindly.”

She nodded. “That’s smart. However, we’ve got beds, showers, and food, and you were stuck on a rock during a flood.” She lifted a hand, palm up. “Seems you’re out of options.”

Stiles flexed his fingers, flicking his gaze over the walls that suddenly seemed to be closing in on them.

Ari rolled her eyes and leaned in close, her nose mere inches from his. “Look, you can start a fight or you can get cleaned up and spend the night in a locked room being quietly paranoid. Your choice.”

John clamped a hand on Stiles’s shoulder. “Thank you for your help,” he said. “We won’t make trouble.”

Ari grinned. “Good. We don’t have towels, but Jamel found some soap. It’s in there.” She glanced over them and finger waved, heading back up the hallway with a long, confident stride. The candles stayed lit in her wake.

Stiles tilted his head back; the ceilings weren’t very high above, maybe two feet over his head. It was made of spotted, rusty metal and black bolts. It was cold down here, but dry. 

John let go of his shoulder and stepped into the room, which turned out to be kind of small, windowless, and crammed with rickety bunk beds made from rough, untreated wood. The mattresses were lumpy and some looked like they didn’t quite fit the frames, but they were _mattresses_ , which was better than the bare ground.

Stiles squeezed around John and dropped his bag on the bed closest to the door.

John looked unimpressed, but instead of commenting, he found a bed pressed against the wall and flung his bag on it.

Stiles looked at his own bag. It was soaked on the outside, but the water repelling spell he’d done on the inside had saved most of his stuff. 

“Why don’t you shower first?” Stiles suggested, pulling clothes out of the bag.

Nothing was particularly clean—they’d been rinsing their clothes in rivers when they could—but they were dry and marginally warmer than what he had on.

John didn’t answer—he just took some clothes and left the room.

Stiles shuddered and rubbed his palms over his face. As he was dropping his hands, his eye caught on the red hand mark on his left forearm, still vibrant as it was when it’d happened. He cupped his right hand over it, digging into the tracking magic the witch whose name he didn’t even know had branded him with. He flung it out, scattering it northwest away from him and John, hopefully away from…anyone.

His gut clenched at the memory of her, of her powerful magic and the feeling of her in his mind. The feeling of _her_ mind when he’d slipped in, her crystal sharp plans for takeover of a world too broken to resist. He squeezed his own arm until he felt bone, nails cutting into his skin, then he let go, blowing out a breath. All he could do for now was scatter the magic, send her in the wrong direction, and hope it was enough. 

When John returned with about an inch of dirt scrubbed off his skin, emitting a glow from the hot water, Stiles slipped past him. 

John was still unhappy with how Stiles had handled the Hales, and how he’d tried to leave John with them after he realized the witch was tracking him. It made for a lonely journey, but Stiles refused to apologize for trying to keep everyone safe.

The shower made loud clanking and groaning noises when Stiles turned it on, and it smelled like lightning when the water finally sputtered out, but he didn’t care. He scrubbed mud, dirt, and blood off of his arms and legs, out of his hair, off his _face_. The rain had gotten some of it, but adding a squirt of ten year old Japanese Cherry Blossom scented soap went a long way toward making him feel clean finally, even though the sight of the filthy, slow-to-drain water around his feet made him grimace.

He lingered a little, letting the water beat down on his shoulders for a few more minutes than he needed; he couldn’t feel too badly about it, since this was likely to be his only shower—hot or otherwise—for a long time. He inhaled the steam, nearly choking on the flowery scent of the soap, and tried not to think about Derek. He had other things to worry about, like Ari, this boat, the fact that he and John were outnumbered…

They’d run into others since splitting from the Hales, but managed to avoid needing help so far. They’d slipped by the other groups of wanderers with little to no problems, acknowledging each other with heavy suspicion on all sides. This was the first time there’d been no escape, and while timely, the rescue still struck Stiles as suspicious. 

Maybe Ari had realized he was a witch and wanted him around for garden magic, like others seemed to, though he couldn’t see why. The witch who’d protected their ship from the weather and rigged fresh water for a shower didn’t seem to have any trouble with different types of magic. Maybe an extra witch was just like having a back-up generator or something. 

Stiles couldn’t believe it was simple kindness. He refused. 

With a heavy sigh, he switched the shower off and stood, dripping, for a moment, skin prickling with the cold. Since he hadn’t brought anything to dry off with, he just used his partially dried shirt to sop up the worst of it, then got dressed. 

Exhaustion deadened his limbs, but he took the time to pull his boots on and lace them up before stumbling out of the bathroom. The hall was dark and it took him a second to realize it was because the candles had gone out. He fumbled with the door to the room and slipped inside. There was a lock above the door handle, so he flipped that before leaning against it.

“You okay?”

Stiles took a breath. “Yeah. Fine.” He spread his hand against the door, pulsing magic into it; repellent spells, alarms if anyone opened it, a protective perimeter spell he’d perfected once it was just him and John alone. If anyone or anything breached it, it would wake them both. It was easier than neither of them getting enough sleep to function the next day. “Goodnight,” he mumbled, stumbling away from the door and to his bed. He yanked his raggedy blanket out of the depths of his bag and wrapped it around his shoulders before flopping onto the bed and punching his backpack into an agreeably pillow-like shape. 

There was a heavy silence from John’s side of the room, weighted with whatever he wasn’t saying, before he murmured, “Goodnight.” 

Stiles closed his eyes. 

They slept deeply; Stiles wasn’t surprised. They’d been running on fear and adrenaline for weeks, slipping in catnaps in the open when they could. Closed in a room with walls and mattresses was the safest and most comfortable they’d been in a while. 

Stiles forced his mind away from the last time he’d been safe, felt safe, and got out of bed. He was tangled in his blanket and confused by the sliver of light cutting through the pitch black of the room until he looked at John’s bed. 

His bag was there, but he was not. Only his neatly folded blanket kept Stiles from panicking and even that was a near thing. Why hadn’t his spells woken him up? Was it because John had left of his own accord or because a witch had undone them? He shoved his blanket aside and, with an anxious glance at John’s bag, swung his own over his shoulders. At least if anything happened, they would have some supplies. 

The hall was lit from natural light, doors open on either side; most were bedrooms with two beds each, and the light came from windows welded crudely into the walls. Some looked like they’d come from a house while others were what Stiles expected from a boat, small, round, and metal. He hesitated in front of one room, a chill dancing over his skin, but he made himself move on; it was clearly someone’s bedroom, and he had no reason to poke around. More light spilled down from the stairs, like a gleaming path to the surface.

Stiles walked up with one hand gripped tight around the strap of his bag, the other ready to attack.

The sun was only partially risen, but it seemed everyone else was awake, too. Ari was standing outside of what appeared to be a tiny office, talking to the elf named…Nadine, Stiles thought.

Stiles’s gaze skipped around until he found John at a wobbly card table covered with cracked and mismatched dishes. 

Alden was talking to him, pointing at each dish emphatically as he spoke. “As you can imagine,” he was saying when Stiles got close enough to hear, “we eat a lot of fish, but Asher is pretty good with vegetables, so we’ve got a little bit of variety.”

Stiles looked over the table; it was a strange variety, but a mouthwatering one, given what they’d been eating lately. It turned out they weren’t great hunters. 

“You guys have fishing gear?” John asked with the kind of casual tone Stiles knew meant he was very interested. 

“Yep, plenty. It’s how we’ve all survived on the water for as long as we have,” Alden said lightly. He shifted his stance, opening the conversation to Stiles. “Have some breakfast,” he offered. “If Ripley or Nadine can’t get the wind going, we’ll have to figure out how to get moving some other way.”

Stiles tried to imagine rowing such a big boat, but didn’t ask. “Alright,” he said instead. “Thanks.” 

Alden nodded and turned to some of the others, leaving Stiles and John to serve themselves. Stiles was surprised to see a stack of plates in one corner of the table, mismatched colors and textures.

Stiles never thought he’d see the day when a carrot filled him with such buoyant joy, but the apocalypse had changed a lot of things. There were tomatoes, too, and green beans, with fish that sort of tasted like tuna, but Stiles wasn’t entirely sure since it was cut up. He took his plate to some wooden stairs leading to a raised platform that held a windowed control room and the towering sail posts—masts? He balanced his plate on his knees and ate with his fingers, watching while everyone else wandered around eating and doing jobs. 

Rosalva, wearing bright orange pants and a shirt in lurid pink, was talking to John while he ate across the deck. She didn’t look threatening, but Stiles sensed she was a vampire, which meant she was stronger and faster than she looked. 

He shifted his gaze to Nadine, who’d gone over to speak to Ripley; now that he wasn’t drenched, Ripley’s hair was a mess of black curls, his skin a cool tawny color deepened by the sun. He had a wiry, compact sort of build, about the same height as Nadine. She slapped his arm playfully as Stiles watched and Ripley laughed, holding his hands up.

Stiles looked at Ari, who was watching him already. He lifted his chin, accepting her scrutiny while giving his own.

Dry, her hair was wavy brown, tangled from the wind, her skin an almost inhuman deep gold, and her clothes were clearly wool. She, Ripley, and Jamel seemed very young, mid-to-late twenties at the oldest, which meant they’d been teenagers when the bombs had dropped. Nadine looked young, too, but most elves did; Rosalva looked around Alden’s age, though being a vampire meant she could be any age. 

A mixed group, apparently unrelated, so severely different in age. Stiles couldn’t see the connection or understand how they’d met and stayed together. Most groups lumped by age or type—vampires, werewolves, kinetics…He didn’t even know what Ripley and Ari were.

Ari, apparently bored, scoffed and went to Jamel, who was examining a lump of wires. “Do you think the magic will hold another day?”

He shrugged. “Maybe. Depends on the weather.”

She scowled. “That’s not helpful.”

He looked up and lifted a brow at her. “Maybe you should be talking to Ripley about it.”

She shot a glance over at him. “Yeah, maybe.” She looked up at the wispy clouds above them, yesterday’s storm long gone. “Ripley!” she bellowed, making Stiles jump. 

A laugh next to him had him glowering; Rosalva held her hands up. “Sorry. I just came over to see if you had any injuries that needed tending.”

Stiles shook his head. “Just minor cuts and scrapes.” He scratched his cheek.

“What’s this? A burn?” She brushed her fingers against the skin of his arm, just under the handprint. 

Stiles yanked his arm in. “No, just—magic.” He pressed it against his stomach, partially hiding it as he picked at his tuna. “It’s just magic.”

She eyed him skeptically. “Alright. Well, if you need any medical attention, let me know. I was a doctor before,” she added with a wistful sigh. “Of course, most people aside from witches don’t need much medical attention these days, and even witches heal a bit faster than humans.”

“Really?”

She smiled. “It’s not a huge difference, but noticeable if you know what you’re looking for.” She stood and brushed at her pants. “Let me know if you need any help.”

“Sure.” He looked at his basically empty plate and tapped his thumb against the edge.

Wind whipped over the ship, whistling and blowing his hair back. He looked up and saw Ripley staring up at the masts, a severe frown on his face. Overhead, the sky began to darken with reluctant clouds. 

Nadine set a hand on Ripley’s shoulder. “Easy.”

He shot her an irritated glower. “You do it, then.”

“You need the practice. Just ease back before you call up a storm.”

Stiles looked at the sky again, mouth dropping open. He stood and rushed to Nadine and Ripley. “Hey. You can call storms?”

He grimaced. “More than anything else, apparently.”

Stiles nodded, head bobbing almost frantically. “You’re a thunderbird.”

Nadine sighed while Ripley’s face went blank. “He knows, he refuses to accept.” 

“I _was_ human.”

“You _were_ adopted by people who’d have assumed you were human.” Nadine lifted her full silver eyes to Stiles. “I’ve seen this a lot, actually. I was a social worker and tried to keep up, but you can’t catch them all.”

Ripley scowled. “Whatever. I can’t-” He gestured at the sails. “Do the wind.”

“Right.” Nadine narrowed her eyes at them.

The sails snapped out as wind filled them.

Ripley bowed mockingly and jumped over the railing.

Stiles glanced at Nadine.

She lifted her hands. “He was a gymnast. He’s much more comfortable leaping off things than using his powers.”

“Huh.” He looked over his shoulder, but Ripley was halfway across the boat, talking to Jamel with hunched shoulders. 

“Excuse me, but I need to get back to work.” Nadine smiled at him and stepped into the glass control room; there were papers everywhere, pens and sketches and wrinkled old maps.

Stiles went back down the steps, seeking out Alden to ask where he could wash his plate. 

John waved him over. “I’ll take it. The galley is on the second floor, where we slept. Why don’t you set your bag down?”

Stiles shrugged. “Just in case.” He twisted the plate in his hands. “I can take care of it.”

“No, I can do it. I want to look at the set up,” he added in an undertone, so Stiles passed his plate over.

“Just…be careful.” He was glad to see John wasn’t being as blindly trusting as he’d thought, though. 

He nodded seriously and went to the stairs where Alden was taking the rest of the dishes. 

Stiles moved over to the right…starboard?...side of the boat, leaning against the side and squinting out over the water. They must’ve been heading east, since the sun was rising in front of the boat. He pressed his lips together and inhaled through his nose; the air smelled cleaner than the previous day, still filled with salt water and ocean smells, but less dangerous. Fresher.

Stiles curled his hand around the mark on his arm and scattered the magic. It was probably still disrupted from the day before but the more cold trails he could get her following, the better. 

Ari leaned against the wall next to Stiles, resting her elbows on the edge. “So where are you guys heading, anyway?”

He dropped his gaze.

The witch had a plan, which included the destruction of a budding settlement run by someone people referred to as the Queen of the South. Apparently, she was pretty powerful, and had created a town of sorts, somewhere people could _live_. The witch wanted to crush it out like an ember, the same as she’d done to other towns, settlements, or attempts at society rebuilding for the last ten years. She knew that keeping people drifting meant when she took over, they would be more likely to let her. She was also killing other witches, taking their power for herself—like she was taking out the competition. If she was the only person who could use garden magic, she would be the only person who could grow crops, which would make her incredibly valuable and powerful. 

Stiles wanted to go because if the Queen of the South was that powerful, enough to seem like a threat to the witch who'd been killing other witches for years, she might be powerful enough to remove the tracking curse on Stiles's arm. Selfish, probably, but he had to look after himself and his dad first. 

John...did not see it that way. He thought they should warn the Queen of the South, tell her what was coming so she and her settlement had a fighting chance.

“South,” Stiles said at last. “We were heading south.”

Ari hummed. “Looking for someone?”

He glanced at her. “Sort of.” He chewed the inside of his cheek. “Have you heard of the Queen of the South?” It felt silly to say out loud, like a ridiculous made up action hero.

But Ari nodded. “Yeah, we’ve heard of her. Never met her or anything, but people talk.”

Stiles couldn’t help looking around. “ _What_ people?”

She laughed. “What, you think you’re the only strays we’ve given rides to? Please.” She moved her shoulders. “Why do you ask?”

“We’re going there. Or trying to.”

She nodded again. “Alright then.” She didn’t ask why or how he’d heard of her. “Well, you guys are welcome to ride with us as close as we can get. Got nothing better to do after we pick up the rest of the crew,” she added with a shrug.

Stiles nodded. “Thanks.”

She studied him. “We don’t mind, as long as you don’t murder us in our sleep.” With that, she pushed off the wall and marched away. 

Stiles brushed a hand over the part of the wall she’d been leaning on, somehow unsurprised to find the metal almost too hot to touch. He’d forgotten to ask her what she was, though he had a guess. He turned away from the water and looked over the deck, gaze skipping from one crew member to another. He guessed it was better than trying to swim to wherever this _queen_ was.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't decided on a posting schedule yet, but I'm thinking every 5th day. I dunno. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy the action! :D

The day grew hot, as if to make up for the chilly storm the evening before, the sun glaring down at them in a relentless shine. Stiles mostly took refuge in the sparse shade, watching everyone else man the sails and rudders dutifully. Alden and John seemed to be getting along, since they spent most of the morning together at a card table. Stiles didn’t really care; as long as John was in his sight, he had no reason to worry. He scratched absently at the mark on his arm, unsurprised when his nails didn’t leave any lines. He’d briefly considered carving the mark off with a knife, desperate and fearful in the early hours of the morning after spending a night hunted by the creatures the witch dug her mind into to control but the knife hadn’t pierced his skin or even left a mark. He stood, annoyed, and decided to find something to do. Maybe he would go below decks and work on creating new spells. The one he’d used on the seal had worked out for him; at least he’d have something to _concentrate_ on.

Something rocked the ship, nearly tossing him off his feet and making someone behind him yelp. 

“Ari!” Nadine called, hurtling out of her glass room. “There’s…mermaids.” She sounded baffled, looking over her shoulder toward the bow of the boat. 

Ari stood at the bottom of the stairs, frowning up at her. “Why are they attacking us?”

She shook her head and ran to the very front of the boat, gripping the railing and leaning forward, almost halfway over the water. She shouted in a language Stiles didn’t recognize.

Stiles leaned forward on his toes, fascinated to see the water rippling. 

Two faces broke the surface suddenly, with long, liquid black eyes and dark skin, their hair long and green, trailing through the water like seaweed. They bared sharp teeth and lunged straight up out of the water. 

Nadine leaped back with a yelp.

The mermaids fell back with a splash, then threw themselves at the hull, digging in with claws that rent metal like flesh. 

Stiles climbed the stairs around Ari and stopped next to Nadine, thrusting his hands out over the rail, palms out, fingers straight. 

The mermaids tumbled back, tangling together and shrieking as they were thrown away from the boat. 

Nadine swore quietly and, gripping the rail next to Stiles, called out in that language again.

“Uh, _Ari?_ We’ve got sharks?” Rosalva’s voice did _not_ sound confident. 

Nadine whipped around. “Sharks?! They wouldn’t bother us.” The boat rocked, dangerously tipping toward the left. “Mermaids _and_ sharks? Jamel! See if you can hypnotize the mermaids.” 

“I don’t think-” he began.

“Or would you rather the sharks?”

Mermaids were more similar to humans, which vampires could hypnotize, than sharks; elves had a gift for communicating with animals.

“Fine.” Jamel joined Stiles at the bow and grimaced down at the water. 

Stiles flexed his hands. “Do you guys have a lot of problems with mermaids?”

Jamel glanced at him. “No, not really. Nadine speaks most of their dialects and they speak most of ours, so we usually just talk if there’s a-” He cut off with an oath as the boat rocked again.

Ari snarled, “They’re tearing apart my ship.”

Stiles looked at the water, which was rippling again. He lifted a brow and flung a hand at it.

Boiling water shot straight up in the air; three furious mermaids surfaced with welts on their faces and necks. They bared their teeth and lunged up.

Stiles swept his hands out in front of himself, knocking them off course. 

Beside him, Jamel leaned in, trying to catch their eyes, but they tossed their heads, throwing his hypnotism off like an irksome fly. They dug claws into the metal hull of the ship, hissing. The one closest to Jamel began to climb up, heaving the weight of her tail out of the water with ease.

Stiles clenched his fist, readying a spell, and missed the movement from the mermaid with short blue hair.

She launched straight up in the air while he was watching the one climbing the boat and caught Stiles by the back of the neck, her cold webbed hand clamping down hard, bending him double over the rail so their faces were inches apart. Her dark, wet eyes stared deeply into his.

Stiles flung his mind at hers, a psychic strike that might’ve worked if her mind wasn’t a tangled mess inside. He pressed in further, trying to make sense of it all, and felt her panic, her confusion—her anger. There were spikes of ice in her mind, crystalized control over her own free will. 

A hand pried her off of Stiles, yanking him back to safety before she could drag him into the sea.

He snapped out of her mind and threw his hands up, blindly warding off another attack.

Something cracked sharply, a burning stink filled the air. The mermaids shrieked. Something sizzled. 

Stiles felt Jamel let him go and blinked, clearing his vision. He first noticed the stench of burned flesh and hot metal; then he saw the railing. He’d melted it and hit the mermaids below in the same blast, throwing steam in the air.

Molten metal dripped from the bars, leaving red hot puddles along the edge. 

“Holy shit,” Jamel said weakly.

The mermaid below threw herself at the ship, grabbing for Stiles’s legs.

“Wait!” Nadine yelled. She hurled herself in front of the mermaid, catching her wrists and pleading with her in a language similar to the one she’d attempted earlier, though it had harder vowels and sounded slightly different. 

The mermaid snarled and swiped at her, her long, deep green tail slapping the deck. 

Nadine tightened her grip and shook. “ _No!_ ”

Stiles braced himself and prodded into the mermaid’s mind, flinching at the prickly ice shards that seemed to be there to keep him out. They didn’t feel like the mermaid, whose mind by itself was cool and clear, but not frigid, softer than ice. It was buried under icy spikes and dark, confused emotions.

Stiles tugged at the tangled threads of magic, but the witch had a powerful hold on her, and Stiles’s psychic magic wasn’t as well developed as his battle magic.

The mermaid jerked her head, biting into Nadine’s arm. 

“She’s under a spell,” Stiles blurted. “I can, um-” He lifted his hand.

“Don’t,” Nadine said between her teeth. “It isn’t her fault.” She tightened her grip, a strong pulse of green light flaring from her.

The mermaid lashed her tail, knocking Jamel right off his feet.

He yelped and caught the railing before he slipped over the edge, slamming into the side of the boat.

Stiles jumped over Nadine’s legs and reached for him, catching at his free arm. As he helped pull Jamel to safety, he watched the mermaid from the corner of his eye, panicked. How had the witch found him? How had she enchanted the mermaids? He’d been scattering the tracking magic—but then, she’d used other creatures like this before, hadn’t she? An elf, a group of werewolves…she was a powerful witch and accomplished in psychic magic. Of course she could do the same to mermaids.

“Wyvern,” the mermaid intoned. Her voice was a deep purr, carrying easily over the whole of the ship.

Stiles looked at Jamel, confused, and cautiously cast his senses; John was fine, and—he drew back into himself, wincing.

“ _Wyvern,_ ” the mermaid repeated. 

A shadow blotted out the sun before Ari thumped down behind Nadine, pulling her reptilian wings in. “What do you want?” 

“Hand over any witches and your ship will be spared.”

Ari laughed, shaking her hair back. “Who’s asking?”

The mermaid gazed up at her, blank eyed but smirking. “The Great Witch, the Ice Witch, the-”

“ _Oh._ That bitch. I remember her.” Ari dropped a hand to her hip and leaned in close, so they were eye to eye. “Tell that bitch she’s welcome to try me. But for now, no stowaways.” With that, she pried Nadine’s grip from the mermaid’s wrists and shoved her overboard.

Stiles lurched forward automatically. “It wasn’t her fault, she was under a spell, under-”

“A witch’s control. I know.” Ari’s face twisted. “She’s done that before; we met Lise, a member of our crew, after her group had been killed a couple years ago. Lise had been sent out under some powerful mind control magic to lure people up north.” She shrugged. “Mermaids can swim.” 

Stiles’s hand twitched, but he managed to stop from grabbing for his branded arm. “I see.”

Ari nodded. “Our witch broke her out of it, thankfully, but we’ve been hearing about her for a while.” 

Stiles tried to keep his face even. “Your—he just broke the spell?”

She nodded, lifting a brow at him. 

Stiles’s gaze shot down to the main deck thoughtfully. “But he also grew vegetables and shielded your ship?”

“Yep,” she chirped. “Sort of a jack-of-all-trades,” she added, like she could tell what he was thinking. “Anyway, Ripley!” she called out. “Could really use some storm cover to lose the fishies on our asses!”

Nadine was still sitting, her hands upraised from where she’d been holding the mermaid. She looked up at Stiles, a tense frown on her face. “Are you alright?”

He nodded. “I’m—sorry.”

The boat rocked again.

“Don’t get weepy yet,” Jamel muttered. “They’re still attacking.”

Stiles looked over the rail; four mermaids had gathered around the hull, eyes gleaming up at them. He pressed his lips together. “I can push them away, if someone can get the boat moving so they don’t immediately catch up.”

Nadine rallied herself, wiping her nose and getting unsteadily to her feet. “I can do it.”

Stiles nodded; behind them, he could hear Ari and Ripley arguing, but he shut it out, pressing his chest against the rail so he could see into the water without falling. His magic crept out like tendrils, sliding along the boat where water met metal until he felt it touch at the stern. 

The ocean lapped at the glowing line of his magic like a curious animal, cold and powerful in its own way. 

Stiles held his breath, waiting as the threats lit up red in his mind, almost like targets, one-two-three-four. He even felt the sharks that were battering themselves bloody on the other side, their minds blank of everything except the urge to obey the magic invading them. 

He brought his hands together, took a breath, and flung them out wide, hoping the spell would work like it did with fire. 

The air seemed to go utterly still, a silence so deep it could be felt, and then it exploded with a low _crack_.

Water flew away from the boat, parting as the wind gusted above them. Mermaids tumbled over each other in the violent waves, shrieking, tails breaking the surface as they struggled. 

Stiles brought his hands together again. Magic pulsed from the ship, sending wave after wave at the mermaids, their own home turned against them. “Nadine!” he shouted.

“I’m working on it!”

He gritted his teeth and pushed again. Water had never been his element; it was slippery and temperamental, soothing and dangerous both in ways he didn’t understand, and his magic reacted accordingly. He felt something under the surface, a ripple of danger, and flung his hands out without thinking.

The spear the mermaid had thrown flew off course as she exploded into dust. It skidded across the dock noisily. 

Stiles’s magic surged, like gulping water in the desert, and when he pushed the ocean n away again, the waves rose over their heads. 

“Ripley, _storm!_ ” Ari snapped.

Stiles heard him grumble, felt the deck vibrate. 

“Fine.”

He turned his head in time to see Ripley bunch his legs and throw himself into the air.

Gray and black wings snapped out, jerking him up before he could hit the water. He flapped, pushing down steadily until he began rising.

“Hey.” Jamel grabbed Stiles’s arm. “Careful.” 

Stiles backed away from the rail. “Thanks, but I have to stay—in case they get close again.” He wanted them to, his magic was buzzing and eager. It was made for this, tailored for fighting rather than gardening or affecting the weather. He wanted something to fight, deserved or not.

Clouds gathered overhead, blotting out the sun. 

He looked up. 

Ripley was about forty feet above the boat, wings working hard to keep him airborne. He had his arms out, but it didn’t look like anything was happening. 

Stiles glanced at Jamel, confused, but all eyes were on Ripley. He looked down at the deck; John and Alden had taken cover by the stairs while Nadine and Ari stood in the center, staring up. Stiles felt the hair on his arms rise and slowly lifted his gaze.

Lightning flashed along the seventeen foot expanse of Ripley’s wings, crackling along the edges and weaving through the feathers. His head was thrown back.

The clouds darkened, roiling together like a bunched fist, and thunder growled, deafening and close. 

Stiles’s breath hitched. 

Rain poured from the sky.

“Nadine,” Ari called. “Get us moving, he’s about to come down.”

The storm began in earnest then, as if it’d just needed Ripley to get it started before it cut loose.

Wind gusted over the deck like icy fingers, tugging at the sails until they started moving.

Stiles braced himself against the rail when the ship lurched. 

Jamel grabbed the spear the mermaid had thrown, rolling it between his palms thoughtfully. It was made of a strange deep blue metal, gleaming silver at the sharpened tip. There were symbols etched into the sides of the handle, like writing. 

Thunder roared overhead as the water began to churn around them. 

Ripley dropped back to the boat, wings trailing across the deck. He slipped to his knees, shuddered, and pulled them in, folding them neatly into enormous slits cut into the back of his shirt. Black and gray feathers littered the deck. 

Ari helped him to his feet and looked out over the stern of the ship. The wind Nadine was pushing into their sails was quickly carrying them out from under the storm, leaving it with the mermaids. 

“Thank you.” Ari was still holding Ripley’s arm, looking into his face gravely.

He shrugged. “At least it worked.” Then, as if of one mind, they turned to look up at Stiles. 

He gulped and managed to wave his fingers.

“That was pretty cool,” Ari said. “But you owe me a rail.”

He smiled uneasily. “Oops.”

Ripley snickered and knocked his shoulder into Ari’s. “At least no one drowned.”

She shuddered. “Right.”

Jamel looked up, watching rain bounce off their shield; the droplets were forming a strange, spider web-like pattern. 

Stiles cautiously felt at the shield. It was complicated, meant only to protect from water, even the ocean. He had to wonder why it didn’t block other threats, but he was afraid if he prodded it too closely, he might shatter it. The spell was already weakened, days old without reinforcement from its caster, and strange magic might break it.

Jamel was examining the railing and hardened piles of metal that Stiles’s blast had created. He glanced up and grinned when he noticed Stiles watching. “Never seen Asher do this.”

“Yeah…it’s a talent.”

Jamel nodded. “Different types, I know. Asher’s okay at a lot of different types of magic, but this is advanced, isn’t it?”

Stiles shrugged, but he was curious, so he figured if he talked, so would Jamel. “So, Asher can do garden, protective, and psychic magic?”

He nodded and held his fingers an inch apart. “A little bit. He can also do a bit of weather, medicine, textile…He can do others, I just can’t remember what they’re called.” Jamel shrugged. “He has a talent for picking up types.”

Stiles scowled, turning his face so Jamel couldn’t see. He knew some witches were like that, picking up types of magic the way some people picked up languages, but that didn’t make it any easier to swallow as someone who couldn’t even grow a single carrot. At least, he reflected, he was good in combat. “That’s cool,” he said to Jamel. “He’s lucky,” he added. 

Jamel nodded, watching Stiles’s face. “Yes.” 

“I’m gonna go check on my dad.” He scrambled down the stairs.

John met him halfway. “You alright?”

“Yeah, they missed me. What about you?” Stiles searched his face for signs of pain, but he just looked tired and a little exasperated, his only wound the scabbed-over cut on his cheek from days ago.

“Fine. They’re asking if I have the same type of magic as you.” He lifted a brow. “Got any idea why?”

Stiles lifted his back. “Um, because we’re related, and I’m a witch, so they assume you are, too, especially since you survived the bombs.”

John hummed. “Alright. Alden needs some help in the kitchen, I think I’ll be down there.”

“Should I be planning the wedding, or-”

John flipped him off as he walked away, making Stiles snicker.

Rosalva was watching him when he turned. She offered a tense smile. “You and your father are close.”

“Yeah, we’ve got the same sense of humor.” He sidled away from the stairs, putting his hands in his pockets. “It’s like a curse,” he added, “but at least we make each other laugh.”

“Stiles.” Her voice made him tense.

He swung back around, facing her full on, and offered a brilliant smile. “Yeah?”

She studied him, dark eyes roving over his face. “Nothing,” she murmured. 

“Alright. See you.” He walked away briskly, over to Ari. “What do you need me to do?”

She looked startled, then noticed his face. “Well, we could use someone untangling the rope. All that rocking kinda tangled it,” she drawled, jerking her thumb over her shoulder.

Piles of rope were indeed tangled next to the cabin by the stern, spread out like snakes.

“Okay.” He experienced a flash of pure satisfaction when her expression flickered with surprise, but he didn’t linger to enjoy it. He just went to work on the ropes. 

They were rough and badly tangled, giving him plenty to concentrate on as tiny fibers slid under the thin skin of his fingers and palms. They were heavy, too, enough that he struggled to stay upright as he looped it over his shoulder in coils. He wasn’t sure if it was the right way to store rope, but it worked for cables and it was working for the moment. No one disturbed him, which he took to mean they didn’t care how he was doing it. He hung the untangled coils on heavy hooks he found bolted to the outside of the cabin. 

The light was fading when he sat surrounded by the tangles of the last rope; the sun was setting behind the boat, casting a pink-orange glow over his work space. He dropped the rope and let out a little breath, watching the light shine over the water, glittering like a scatter of gems. He looked over his shoulder.

John was talking to Ari by the cabin a few feet away from where Stiles was sitting, and Nadine and Rosalva were just visible beyond them, talking about fishing or fish or something to do with either of those. 

Stiles turned back to the sunset, clenching his hands on top of his knees. He could feel it creeping up on him, the way it almost always did as night was falling, usually in quiet moments. He cast his senses when he couldn’t hold back any longer. He felt his bond to John, a warm green cord of family ties, strengthened by affection and trust, sensed John’s contentment; he felt a vague awareness of the virtual strangers around him, thin connections that he could dig into deeper if he wanted, and beyond that, the moon-bright silver cords, one-two-three, tethering him firmly to the Hales despite the distance and betrayal that should have snapped such new bonds. He’d only ever been able to sense John and, as a kid, Claudia, from any distance before. It’d taken years to sense Scott and Melissa from miles away, same with the rest of them: Lydia, Boyd, Erica, Danny; even Jackson, eventually, though Stiles always claimed it was Jackson’s bond to Lydia that connected them. He couldn’t sense any of them now, of course, but he was holding out hope that at least some of them had survived the bombs.

He’d found out from a kinetic weeks ago that some people who had been born or living as human had reacted to the magical explosion that killed the rest of the humans by having latent powers dragged out of them. It wasn’t many, but Beacon Hills had always had a certain pull for supernatural creatures, and most of his friends’ families had been in Beacon Hills for generations. It was probably too much to hope for, but he had to, or else he had to accept that everyone he knew before was dead. He wished he could sense them, at least.

He dug his nails into his palms, his throat going tight. He could sense the Hales, though, bright and easy as if they were right next to him. He thought, maybe, it was because they had been like a pack. The realization cut him to the core, had him bowing forward to catch his breath. 

He’d lied to them, right from the start, led them to believe he could grow crops magically for them if they helped protect him and John in the hostile world that they’d woken up into after ten years. The Hales were the ones who’d woken them up, and were the only reason John and Stiles had survived their first night. 

Stiles had wanted to tell them, after a while of traveling together, but he was afraid that he wouldn’t be able to keep his father safe alone, and had waited too long to come clean. And, after a while, he had started feeling responsible for them, too. He hadn’t wanted to leave them. He curled his hand over the mark on his arm.

After they’d fought the witch, after she’d branded him, she revealed the truth to the Hales after using the mark to track them. 

Laura had tried to get Stiles to stay anyway; she’d claimed it didn’t matter that he’d lied, that it didn’t matter that he couldn’t help them farm. Derek had tried to convince him, too, and it’d hurt to kick at him the way he had, to tell him he’d only been using him for protection, but he’d had to.

The witch was tracking Stiles. She wanted his magic, his power, and she wanted to kill him. She didn’t care about werewolves much, just witches. The only way to keep them safe, to keep them out of the witch’s sights, was to get as far away from them as possible. He’d tried to get John to stay with them, but he wasn’t having it, and, privately, Stiles was glad. He didn’t want to be alone.

Peter had tried to come with, but Stiles couldn’t let him leave Laura and Derek, his niece and nephew, when they’d just gotten him back. The bombs had mutated Peter the way they’d done to most animals, though no one was sure why. Stiles had helped him remember himself when they’d met.

They’d all looked out for each other on their trip north for sanctuary, relied on each other. But it was better this way. Stiles could keep them out of the line of fire, even if they hated him for it.

He set his hands on the deck beside his legs to ground himself and felt at the bonds, prodding the silver cords to test their strength.

The Hales felt okay—a little tired, sad, a little angry under the surface, but alive. Laura was irritated about something, Derek was…exhausted. Stiles wished he could take his hand, let him lean on his shoulder, brush his fingers through his hair…though he suspected if he was there, Derek wouldn’t be eager to share kisses and cuddles—a swift punch to the nose, perhaps.

Stiles swiped a hand over his eyes and drew back into himself, chest aching. He got way too attached too quickly; he shouldn’t be this heartbroken over someone he’d known for such a short amount of time. He was sometimes an asshole, but he didn’t go around being cruel usually, so maybe this was just…intense guilt. He stared over the water. It was better this way. They were safer. 

“Hey, man.”

Stiles looked up and wiped his face, embarrassed. “Hey. Sorry, do you need the rope?” He scrambled to his feet.

Jamel shook his head. “No, I just wondered if you were okay.”

He swallowed. “Yeah. Just tired.” He felt Jamel studying him, his expression grave, but he didn’t turn, couldn’t meet his eyes. 

Jamel leaned against the rail, looking out to the darkening horizon. “It helps to only think of the future,” he said. “Let the past go until the painful memories fade a bit.”

Stiles snorted, tension going out of his shoulders. “Spoken like an immortal.”

Jamel shrugged. Silence drifted over them, broken only by the gentle sound of the wind and waves lapping at the boat.

Stiles turned his face into the wind. It felt nice for now, though he suspected it would result in badly chapped skin soon enough.

“How old were you when the bombs dropped?” Jamel didn’t turn toward him as he asked, his voice serene.

Stiles’s brows furrowed. “Twenty-one,” he said, surprising himself by telling the truth.

Jamel finally looked over, brows lifted in surprise, but he didn’t press.

Stiles told him anyway. “When I knew—when the bombs were launched, when I knew we were no match, that we would die, I…did a spell to protect my dad and myself. It kind of…it was a preservation spell I tinkered with and as a result, we were kind of frozen until someone woke us up.”

He nodded slowly. “Impressive.”

“I just wanted to protect my dad,” he muttered. He glanced at him sidelong, bit his lip. “How old were you when the bombs dropped?”

Jamel let out a long breath. “Twenty-six. I’ll be twenty-six forever.”

Stiles nodded. He’d thought so.


	3. Chapter 3

It was a good thing neither John nor Stiles were prone to seasickness, because Ari captained her boat with reckless abandon. Stiles suspected that her close calls with jutting rocks and sharp turns would have leveled a lesser crew, but her people didn’t seem to notice. Ripley could sometimes change the weather in their favor for smoother sailing, but he was really better at calling storms than he was at banking them. Nadine managed to get the wind going when it wasn’t cooperating on its own.

Stiles grumbled and squirmed in place as Rosalva disinfected a gash on the side of his arm that he’d received when he tripped over his own feet and skidded against the part of the taffrail that he’d melted. 

“Stop moving, I’m almost done. This is why we roped the bow off,” she added. “Though I suspect that’s a foreign concept to you.” 

He glowered at her. “I wanted to see if I could fix it.”

“Uh-huh.” She wrapped gauze around the cut. “Keep it covered, see me if it gets swollen, hot, or red, or all three.”

“Thanks.” It was getting late in the day again, not quite nightfall, but it was only a matter of time. Everyone had jobs to do, and knew how to do them without help, which left Stiles feeling useless and in the way. 

The boat had three floors—decks, whatever—that Stiles knew of and a weird set up, though he supposed that was to be expected, given the state of the ship. Stiles was pretty sure Ari had welded pieces of boats together until she had an entire ship, though he hadn’t asked for sure yet. 

With a glance over the deck—everyone busily going about their jobs, ignoring him—Stiles headed for the shadowy set of stairs that led to the second deck. 

The galley was at the very end of the hall—or whatever they were called—and there were four doors on either side going toward the stairs. Stiles and John’s shared room was closest to the stairs, followed by the bathroom, then two bedrooms.

Since the doors were open, Stiles didn’t really feel much shame peeking inside, though he never crossed the thresholds. He wanted to get to know the people who lived on this ship, figure out if he could trust them. He had to get a feel for them. John was in the galley with Alden, like usual lately, so there was no worry about him lecturing Stiles about privacy. 

After the bathroom was Jamel’s room, which he shared with a kinetic, who was with the other half of the crew at the moment. Stiles knew it was his room because he’d tossed his memorable red jacket over the lumpy mattress to the left of the window. The room had a surprising amount of personality, plastered with photographs on the right side; they were water damaged, burned, and smudged, but displayed with pride nevertheless. There was a pile of rocks on a rickety three legged stool beside the other bed of a variety of shades, next to a chipped green mug. 

Jamel’s side of the room was more subdued, though he’d painted his half of the wall somehow with the skyline of a city for the background, with wildflowers in the foreground.

Stiles moved across the hall to what he knew was Nadine and Rosalva’s room. Nadine had proudly shown him earlier in the day—she’d traded some fish for cotton, gauzy green curtains which she’d hung up over her side of the room. He suspected it made her feel more at home, being an elf stuck in the middle of the ocean, far from the wooded places they would normally live. She had a collection of small stones, too, and twigs, flower petals, a tiny bowl of dirt, on her table, like a little piece of land kept close by reminded her of home. 

Rosalva’s side of the room was neat and sparse, like Jamel’s, which Stiles suspected was a vampire habit—he wondered how many times they’d had to up and leave everything without being noticed. Living forever but needing mortals to survive had to be challenging. 

He moved to the next room, flinching when he noticed Ripley sprawled in the bed—there was only one in this room, and a slightly warped bookshelf stacked with an assortment of mason jars, vials, cups, a wide, cracked bowl, and books that Stiles had to squint to see. The whole room gave off a magical hum of _Back off._

Ripley sat up suddenly, gaze lighting on Stiles. “Oh.” He let out a breath, like whoever he’d expected was worse than a snooping stranger. He squinted at Stiles for a second. “Bored?”

Stiles smiled awkwardly. “Yeah. Sorry.”

He shrugged. “There isn’t much to do.” With that, he collapsed back on the bed, like he’d run out of energy. 

Stiles tiptoed across the hall to peek into Alden’s room, curious, and felt a chill on the back of his neck. He rubbed it, annoyed, but found he couldn’t make himself finish crossing the hall. He stood in the middle, annoyed, for a long moment. Then, grumbling, he spun around and froze. 

The bedroom—cabin—whatever across from Alden’s room was open as well, letting light into the hall from the window. 

Stiles scowled and stalked right up to the door. He wasn’t sure whose room it was, some of the others getting supplies, but something felt…urgent about it. He peered in, curling his fingers around the frame to hold himself in place when everything in him wanted to launch directly into the room. 

The room itself had no identifying items—there was a calendar taped to one wall with markings on it, probably just keeping track of days—but something about it…there was a hairbrush on a long table beneath the window, nearest the bed on the right side, a cracked perfume bottle, a small, sharp knife, and a stack of waterlogged paperbacks in the middle. There was a small collection of tea lights on the left side of the table, a pocket sized leather journal bulging with extra paper and a stack of pens. None of the items were familiar to Stiles in any way, but still, he found himself breathless, clinging to the door frame to stay upright on shaking knees. 

He backed away, shaking his head. A part of him itched to cast his senses, to feel along the floor and wall of the room until he understood, but if he did that, he’d be opening himself to feel what the others were feeling—to Derek, and he’d been doing a good job of only prodding at their connection once a day. It was still an invasion of their privacy, but he could reassure himself that they were okay that way. 

He forced himself to turn away from the room and walked into the galley, striding in with a confidence he didn’t feel. He was surprised to find that John wasn’t there, but Alden was.

He was cursing over a dented deep freezer, lifting fish out into buckets surrounding him. 

“You okay?” Stiles asked. 

He jerked upright, clutching a large fish in one hand. “Oh, yeah. Our ice is melting.” When Stiles looked puzzled, he continued, “Asher made some ice for us before going for supplies, but it melts after a while. Our food will go bad.” 

Stiles nodded and moved closer so he could see into the freezer. This, he could do something about. “May I?”

Alden lifted a brow and stepped aside.

Stiles stuck a hand into the freezer, braced on the wall. Ice spread from the point of contact and as it did, his mind tumbled, blank, cold, empty, and—

_Rock exploded into glittering shards with a grating crunch, but it wasn’t enough, wasn’t nearly what she’d tasted from_ him _. She couldn’t rest knowing power like that was out there. He wasn’t nearly as good at hiding as he thought he was. Disrupting the tracking spell would only work for so long. Childish magic, she thought with a snarl. Sometimes when she slept, she felt the burn of his mind, flame-bright and hot as a burning star, his magic all-consuming, destruction in a lanky pale container. The perfect counterpoint to her icy methodical magic, and she_ would _have it. She didn’t need to find him herself. The elves had—_

“Are you okay?” Alden’s hand closed on his arm, snapping Stiles out of whatever vision he’d been sucked into.

He shuddered and looked down. The inside of the freezer was coated with a thick sheet of ice, heavier on the bottom. “Yeah. Um, that should keep your stuff cold.” He peeled his hand free, shaking it to get the blood flowing again.

“How long?”

Stiles stared at him blankly for a long moment. “Oh, I don’t know. My ice doesn’t usually melt. It’s not—not really for domestic use.” He glanced at the freezer uneasily. “I’m sure it’ll stay in there, though.” It’d been a long time since he’d had to battle back a spreading freeze from an overzealous spell.

Alden looked at the freezer, too. “Uh…huh. Thanks.”

Stiles nodded, backing up a step. He finally noticed the rest of the galley, a propane stove and clean but abused counters, open cabinets filled with mismatched dishes. There was a sink behind the stove with one side filled with water and the other scraps of towels. There was a bucket where the faucet should have been. There were also several windows throughout the room, but they didn’t get very good light. Stiles looked up at the long fluorescent bulbs along the ceiling and flicked his fingers at them.

Alden huffed and put his hands on his hips as light filled the room. “Anything else you’d like to do? Water into wine, part the sea? Oh, wait, you already did that.”

It startled a laugh out of him. “No, sorry, that’s not really my talent.”

Alden snorted. “Could’ve fooled me. Sit.” He pointed at a scarred wooden table pushed back against the wall, then went to the buckets of food he’d pulled out of the freezer. He pulled something out with his back to Stiles and turned to a counter, picking up a knife from a chipped knife block.

Stiles sat. “Where’s my dad?”

Alden waved over his head. “He went up about an hour ago, I’m surprised you didn’t see him. I think he’s going to talk to Ari about when we’re going fishing next.”

“Oh.” Stiles picked at a tear in his jeans. He didn’t know how to take John’s weird ease with these people, because he couldn’t relate. 

Alden turned away from the counter with a red bowl full of peach slices. He grinned at the look on Stiles’s face. “Asher doesn’t grow fruit often, so we save it for special occasions.”

Stiles smiled weakly. “Me pouting in your kitchen is a special occasion?”

“Cheering up is.” He sat across from Stiles and slid the bowl to him. “I figure everything is miserable enough, might as well enjoy the little things. Like a peach on occasion.”

Stiles snorted. “Yeah, I guess I get that.” He cast his senses out tentatively, brushing up against Alden’s mind, but he didn’t feel anything threatening, just mild amusement and goodwill. He picked up a piece of the peach and took a bite. The burst of sweetness, the juice trailing down his chin, brought back memories of childhood, shoveling whatever was put in front of him in his mouth as quickly as he could to get back outside with Scott. The taste was heavenly and almost felt like doing something wrong, after eating only unseasoned meat for so long. He savored the bite, eyes closing, and wondered if fruit had ever tasted this good before. “Thank you,” he said, opening his eyes. He flushed, mortified, when he noticed Alden’s startled expression. 

“Thanks for your help with the freezer and the lights. You got a little pale afterward, though. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, just hungry. Magic is energy, you know?” He popped the rest of the peach slice into his mouth to prove it, eyeing Alden as he chewed to keep his mind from wandering. “Where are we going?”

Alden’s brows came down, mouth twisting off to the side. “It’s a…well, it was a city before the bombs.”

“What is it now?” Were the other members of Ari’s crew scavenging for supplies? Why leave them alone for so long?

“A…it’s just a place. It’s hard to describe.” He stood up to clean the counter where he’d cut up the peach, swiping a damp rag over the same place over and over again.

“Uh-huh. Everywhere is a place.” 

Alden shrugged. “Most of us call it Mad Hollow.”

Stiles swallowed the last of the peach in one gulp, wincing as it slid down his throat. “Why?” he rasped. 

Alden just smiled vaguely at him.

Stiles stood, annoyed. “Thanks for the peach.” He left before Alden could respond and marched to the ladder that led to the third and final deck of the ship.

It was darker and colder below, stuffy and damp with no windows to offer even fading daylight. There was a flashlight duct taped to the wall next to the ladder, which made Stiles think of Peter and snort out a laugh before he could help it. He brushed his fingers over the tape and sighed, then flipped the switch. 

Weak light filled the hall. Stiles probably would’ve been better off just making a light himself, but since he could see where he was putting his feet, he guessed it was fine. There was a door to the immediate left hanging open; inside were crates of gauze, jars of herbs, whole and mashed, sewing kits, and neat stacked cuts of fabric, along with a narrow cot covered in a magenta sheet shoved up against the wall. 

Stiles surmised this was the makeshift infirmary, surprised and a little impressed by how many supplies they had. The jars gave off pleasant magical hums: balms, antibiotic creams, burn creams, even painkillers. He set a jar with dull lavender petals in it back down and left the room. There was a disused engine room across the infirmary—no fuel to run an engine—that seemed to be used as storage. 

Stiles looked around, casting his senses only far enough to feel around the deck he was standing on; he felt magic etched into the floor and walls, fading protections from the crew’s witch. He flooded his own protective spells into them, satisfied when they were bolstered rather than overrun. He let his magic creep along the walls and floor, around corners, skimming bolts and harsh melded metal like sensitive fingers. 

There was a tiny alcove around the corner by the infirmary with some kind of energy hovering in it like a heavy fog, a feeling of familiarity. Stiles stumbled toward it, frowning down at the floor before he even saw what was there. 

A tattered throw blanket, half-used candles, a metal box, a crystal candle holder with red spatters down the side, a feather. 

None of it meant anything to him, but tears blurred his vision, the scene wavering in front of him like a corrupted video. He took a shaky breath to steady himself and closed his eyes, ignoring the two tears that escaped in favor of feeling the area with his mind. 

The items pulsed with energy, not like a witch’s magic but just as old, a flicker of power recognizing power. It was peaceful, quiet, but concentrated, ancient, each item giving off a different frequency but all linked together with the fog of energy hovering here. 

It felt familiar somehow, though Stiles was sure he’d never met anyone with this kind of power. Memories rose, disjointed, in his mind, a deep throated laugh, an exasperated sigh, fingers on his wrist after he’d fainted from using too much magic at once.

Stiles jerked away. He had to get out of this dark little basement; it was dredging up things best left undisturbed, for no reason other than he was alone and his mind was wandering. 

It was getting dark, so no one would notice or care if he just went to sleep. He darted across the hall to his room when he got to the second deck and yelped when John opened the door, hands flying up. “Dad! Don’t do that!”

“Do what?” He seemed annoyed until he got a look at Stiles’s face. He frowned, stepping closer to put a hand on Stiles’s arm. “Are you okay?”

He made himself nod, swallowing back the lump in his throat. “Yeah, I just—I’m fine, I just.” He waved a hand over his shoulder. “I was exploring, there was some dust. I’m good.”

John’s eyes flickered, moving over his face slowly like he could read what’d happened in splotchy red cheeks and bloodshot eyes. “I know you’re worried about trusting other people, and I don’t blame you. But we aren’t going to be here forever; it won’t be long until we’re back to traveling on foot, just the two of us. Take this time to rest.”

Stiles nodded and wished that was what was upsetting him; that was logical and usually what he would be worrying about. “Right,” he managed in a strangled voice. “You’re right. I’m gonna go to bed, I think. Maybe I’m just tired.”

John looked surprised, then suspicious. “Maybe.”

“Just don’t fall overboard while I’m asleep, okay?”

He cracked a smile. “Yeah, I’ll try.”

“Since you can’t swim and all,” Stiles continued, sliding past him into the room.

John stiffened. “I can swim.”

“Dog paddle doesn’t count as swimming unless you’re ten, Dad.” He grinned back at him. “Though I guess it’ll keep your head up until you get rescued.” He mimed an exaggerated doggy paddle, then smirked when John scowled. 

“Go to sleep,” he ordered. 

“Wear a life jacket, old man!” He laughed when John slammed the door as he left. At least he still had his dad. 

_It was dark, and the woods were cold, buzzing with insects and slithering creatures looking for somewhere to burrow for the night. Stiles shuddered and crossed his arms over his chest; he felt exposed, wearing a t-shirt with no backpack. Where were his supplies? Was he lost? Voices ahead caught his attention, the warm glow of a fire drawing him. He hurried on, his boots gliding somehow soundlessly over twigs and dry leaves. He had to get to that fire, had to see…Urgency made the woods around him fade to unimportant blurs, dark trees, thin branches, soggy undergrowth. He burst through a spiny bush that clung to his jeans and tore at his arms, the fire glowing bright in front of him, and there they were. His eyes sought Derek first, hungrily eating up the sight of him, his shock of dark hair and uneven scruff._

_His eyes were shadowed and bloodshot, clothes filthy with dirt and what looked like blood, and his face looked thinner, mouth compressed into a tight line. He had a hunk of cooked meat in his lap that he wasn’t eating, rolling a jar between his palms absently._

_He realized with a jolt of guilt that it was one that Stiles had spelled to preserve whatever was in it._

_He looked away, toward Peter, who was picking sharp-edged pink petals out of his arms stoically, ignoring the thin rivers of blood trailing from the wounds. His claws flashed out and stayed out until he flexed his hand, forcing them back. He stared at his fingertips in surprise, like he hadn’t meant to do that. He was filthier than Derek even, and leaner without looking as sickly, whittled down to essentials for survival only. His gaze lifted as Stiles walked closer to him, resting on the fire. A tired sigh rustled his pile of bloodied petals._

_Laura sat closest to the fire, knees curled up, chin resting on them as she studied the dancing flames. She looked as tired as her brother, her eyes glazed and unseeing. Her backpack was still over her shoulders, the straps caked with mud. There was a smudge of dirt along her jaw and cheek that made her look bruised._

_Stiles wanted to comfort them, wanted to tell them to get some sleep while he watched over them, but when he opened his mouth, no sound came out._

_Laura’s gaze lifted slowly to Derek, her mouth moving as she spoke; Derek’s shoulders jerked noncommittally, but he started picking at the meat in his lap as if he’d just remembered it was there._

_Stiles couldn’t hear them. He looked to Derek and reached out, intending to brush his fingers down his arm. He felt nothing, like gliding his hand along the air. Frustrated, he turned and cast his senses—flung them wide and reckless, and accepted the pang of guilt as the silver cords flared to life. He could see them threaded through the little camp, connecting the Hales to one another and stretching out into the woods, to Stiles and John, however far away they were, bright and somehow unwavering. Stiles brushed his fingers along the one connecting him to Derek, felt a shiver and watched it glow a soft pink briefly, watched Derek shudder and hunch in on himself, squeezing his eyes shut._

_Stiles turned his head away, toward Peter, who was wiping his bloodied fingers on the grass near his leg. Stiles put his hand on the silver cord between them, watched it blur silver and blue, loyalty burning through and making his heart stick in his throat. He didn’t deserve Peter’s loyalty, not after how he’d left them._

_He turned away again, pulling in a shaky breath._

_Only Laura was left, staring into the fire, shivering with fine tremors and only blinking when her eyes watered._

_Stiles hated how muted the connections between the three of them were, exhausted and almost defeated. Stiles rubbed his palms together and caught at the connections, gathering them up like balloon strings and concentrating on the only healing spell he knew, forcing power through the connections._

_Peter shuddered. Derek took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders, looking around with a new alertness. Laura…_

_Laura’s head snapped up, looking straight at Stiles._

Stiles gasped and sat up, banging his head hard on the slats of the bunk above him. He yelped and fell back, hand clapped on to his forehead, eyes stinging and watering. 

“Mmph,” John grunted. “You okay?” His voice was thick and slurred with sleep.

“Yeah,” Stiles murmured. “Go back to sleep.” He laid there until the bright pain faded to a dull throbbing. He wiped his face and rolled, carefully, out of bed. He’d worn his boots to bed like usual, so all he did was shove his bag under the bed and feel along the wall to the door. 

There was a toilet in the bathroom, which was nice—it worked, too, even nicer. There was also a halved mirror nailed to the wall that Stiles used to check out the bruise on his forehead after lighting the candle on the wall. It was already swelling into a goose egg, red and darkening with a bruise. He ran his tongue over his teeth, grimacing, and wished he had a bit of the ginger-mint paste he’d made a while ago to brush his teeth with. Maybe the witch on this crew would have some herbs for toothpaste or mouthwash when he got back. 

Stiles blew the candle out and left the bathroom. The hall leading to the stairs was dark, quiet save for the ever-present sound of the waves. He circled his thumb and forefinger, creating a narrow beam of light to help him navigate. 

The sky was still dark, creeping toward dawn, which explained why it was so quiet. Nadine was sitting in a patched-up lawn chair in the center of the deck, hands lifted. She dropped them when she noticed Stiles and smiled. “Hey, you’re up early. Or late.” She glanced at the sky speculatively. 

“Early. I had a…weird dream and woke myself up.”

“Ah.”

Stiles crossed the deck so they didn’t have to raise their voices to talk, glad for the company. “What’re you doing up?”

“Oh, Ari went to bed last night, for once, so Jamel and I are captaining the ship ’til morning.” She brushed at the fuzzy green blanket in her lap. “We have Battleship. Well, we had to make our own pegs and ships, but we have the boards. We could play, if you’re bored.”

Stiles laughed. “Nah, I’m good. How’s your arm?”

She held it up. “Rosalva changed the bandages before she went to bed. Mermaids have sharp teeth,” she grumbled. 

“Don’t you…sorry if this sounds rude, but don’t you heal pretty quickly?”

She smiled briefly. “No, it’s not rude. I heal faster when I’m on land, by trees. Elf powers are typically tied to their homes.” She sighed wistfully. “But it’s been safer here than there lately, so I’ll take the trade off.”

Stiles nodded. He’d spent more than enough time in the woods to know just how dangerous they were. “Have you and Jamel been out here all night?” He looked toward the bow, where the sky was lightening a tiny bit as sunrise approached. 

“Yep. When Ari actually sleeps, we take the overnight watch. It works for everyone.” She stretched and twisted her hair back. “Wish we had some coffee though.”

“Oh, god.” He shuddered. “That would be amazing.”

She laughed. “We’ll have to ask Asher if he knows how to grow _that._ ” 

Jamel leaned over from the platform where the steering wheel was. “Alden’s making breakfast.” He pointed at his ear when Nadine shot him a questioning look.

Stiles glanced up at him, then at Nadine. “Be right back.” He went back down the stairs, unsurprised to see light coming from the galley. “Morning,” he said, hoping not to startle Alden, who turned to grin at Stiles. “Could you use a hand?”

“Absolutely.”

Twenty minutes later, Stiles took a scratched metal tray up to the top deck, loaded with carrots, tomatoes, green peppers, and three large cuts of cooked fish. “Breakfast,” he said in response to Nadine’s lifted brow. “I figured you guys were hungry.” Then he cast an uneasy, embarrassed glance at Jamel. “You don’t eat food.”

Jamel smiled. “Thank you for thinking of me,” he said instead of answering. 

Nadine giggle-snorted while Stiles turned red. “Alden could’ve said. That’s okay, we can share Jamel’s portion and he can have some of my blood for breakfast.” She winked at him, making him grin.

“Sorry, I should have remembered.” Still embarrassed, Stiles set the tray on the card table near Nadine’s chair. 

Jamel waved him off. “It’s fine. You guys enjoy.” He went back to the wheel whistling. 

Nadine shrugged at Stiles. “Thank you.” She grabbed a plate of fish and vegetables, leaning back in her chair to eat.

Stiles took his own food to the port side so he could lean on the wall and stare at the sunrise while he ate. His sleeve fell back as he picked at the carrots, revealing the edge of the mark. He grimaced and shook his sleeve down, the back of his neck prickling with paranoia. 

What the hell was he _doing?_ Going running to some witch that called herself the Queen of the South in the hopes that she could help him? She might be just as bad as the witch who’d marked him. 

He knew his dad wanted to warn the queen and whatever followers she had about the threat coming for them, but Stiles was more worried about the threat coming for him and John. He glared at his arm, imagining the mark beneath the gray wool. He could feel the tracking magic closing in on him like a signal again, and wished he could cut it off. Instead, he set his chipped plate beside his knee and touched his fingertips to the brand.

He imagined the tracking magic like beads of water gathering into a puddle and slashed his own magic into it, flinging it north, west, away, far away, burrowing underground, into mountains. _Track that,_ he thought, scowling. He realized after a moment that the temperature was rising not just from his anger but around him. He looked up, frowning over at Nadine.

She was folding up her blanket and chair, unbothered even as the water grew rough and began rocking the boat. “Be right back,” she told Stiles, heading up the stairs where Jamel was.

Stiles stood to look over the edge of the boat, into the roiling water that was jostling them around. 

Big dark eyes blinked up at him before disappearing into the depths again. Startled, he cast his senses out and was delighted to feel the tentative response of a selkie, like a shy hand wave before the presence faded with distance. 

He sighed and rolled his sleeves up, submitting to the rising heat. Maybe the queen wouldn’t be so bad; like he’d told John, perhaps a group of witches would be able to get the mark off of him. 

Ari emerged sometime after the sun had fully risen to shoo Jamel and Nadine off to bed. She was brusque and almost rude about it, but they didn’t seem to take it seriously as they teased her about her bedhead and sauntered away. She turned on Stiles after they’d gone and he braced, but she only asked how he was doing.

He shrugged. “Fine. Did you guys make the sails yourselves?”

She eyed him. “Yes. We made the entire ship ourselves from scraps of other ships.”

“Huh. That makes sense. You and Ripley?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Yes,” she said slowly. “And a few others.”

Stiles thought about asking her what others, but knew from the guarded look on her face that he wouldn’t get an answer. “Impressive,” he said instead. “Why’d you leave half your crew alone on land?”

“It’s easier for them to get supplies than it is for all of us to go ashore and worry about the ship constantly. Plus, we needed to get more fish to trade, which is how we found you and the sheriff.” 

Stiles nodded slowly. “Trade with who?”

She smirked, but didn’t have time to answer, as John came stumbling up the stairs, squinting and growling about the sun. “When did it get so hot?” he grumbled, shuffling over to Stiles. 

Ari snickered. “Don’t worry, Sheriff, we’ll be cold soon enough. It doesn’t stay hot long out here. Keeps things interesting.” 

John slid a glance at Stiles, making him snort. 

“Go get dressed boys,” Ari said. “We’re here.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I say every six days? This is short anyway. I will probably post again soon. I'm so excited for the next few chapters especially

Laura hadn’t slept. She’d promised to wake Peter and Derek for their turns to watch through the night, but she couldn’t make herself trade off. Early on in the night, after they’d made camp, she’d sensed…It was impossible, of course, but she was sure she’d sensed _Stiles,_ felt him like he was just out of sight, like he’d come stumbling out of the bushes any moment. She’d been able to sense him and John the way she sensed Peter and Derek for a while, could tell when they were nearby…an alpha sensing her pack. It had faded to a quiet buzz in the back of her mind when they all split up, the knowledge that they were alive and nothing more. 

After Peter and Derek had gone to sleep, she’d searched, but she hadn’t been able to catch his scent. 

Like a ghost, or, realistically, like he’d never been there. But she _had_ felt his presence, and knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep, so she’d let Peter and Derek rest. Someone ought to, she’d reflected, since she couldn’t. She glanced warily over at Derek while they packed up their camp, but he wasn’t looking at her.

He’d been quiet and subdued ever since Stiles and John had abandoned them in a cave up north, as if the blow was too much on top of everything else. 

Laura could have hated them for that, and maybe did, a little, but mostly she was worried. Why had they left? Why had they _really_ left? Because Stiles hadn’t been able to grow plants? They’d all had their asses saved _more_ than once by the magic he _could_ do, they could’ve talked it out. Sure, it’d sucked to find out he’d lied, but they were pack, and they knew he’d been afraid. If he’d have just waited, so they could discuss it, Laura would have been able to talk everyone into calming down and forgiving each other after a while. 

She sighed quietly, rolling her blanket into her bag. She felt it was more than that, but she couldn’t imagine what. Was Stiles really so cowardly as to run from them because of that witch? They hadn’t seen or felt her since Stiles and John had left, since they’d left her territory, and Laura was sure Stiles wasn’t that much of a coward that that would send him running from them. She’d sensed a loyalty in him, even when he’d been trying to keep his distance, and couldn’t imagine that he’d left because of fear. 

“What?” Derek muttered, and it took her a moment to understand that he was responding to her sigh. 

Peter lifted his head. He still had scratches from the sharp petals that’d fallen on him the night before, slow healing but shallow.

“We need a plan,” she said, straightening up. She slung her bag over her shoulders, trying to look confident and breezy; her mother had never had to remember to keep her head up, to keep her pack from spiraling into hopelessness. “We need to…figure out where we’re going.”

Derek stared at her, finished with his own bag. He looked exhausted and uninterested, which was hard to see, like looking at a faded photo of him instead of her brother. 

Laura pursed her lips. “We’re gonna go south,” she announced. “Find that witch settlement, see if they’ll take us in.”

Derek blinked, slowly and then faster, life returning to him in one brilliant blaze of temper. “ _What?!_ Why?”

She grinned, smug. She considered it a sisterly duty to know how to annoy her brother out of the sulks. “Because we need somewhere to _live_. We can’t just keep wandering around forever.”

Peter scoffed.

She shot him a glower, then looked back at Derek. “Besides, my plan for us living alone and isolated backfired spectacularly, so maybe it’s time to try to find a home.”

Derek gaped soundlessly at her. “You are the one who said we should stay away from people in the first place, remember? People jumping us for supplies, territory wars, because they could, ringing any bells?”

Peter clenched his fists at his sides, guilt saturating him, but Laura couldn’t help him at the moment.

“Yes, I remember. But that was in the beginning, when everyone was wandering and scared. This is a settlement, like a town, and we could try to live there.” She wasn’t used to Derek standing up to her or arguing with her—that’d happened because of the Stilinskis, too, and she kind of liked it. Better that than quietly following her when he disagreed. 

Derek wasn’t used to it, either; he looked around like he didn’t know how to finish what he’d started and needed help.

Laura held her hands out. “We don’t have anything better to do. We can go and scope it out. We don’t have to stroll up to the gates, but—just to look, see what it’s like, will you guys come with me?”

Derek examined her face. After a long moment, the fight went out of him. “Yeah, okay,” he mumbled.

Laura frowned, sad to see it go, even if she’d gotten her way. She glanced at Peter, who gave her an impatient look, like he was annoyed she’d even ask. But she had to. Her brother and her uncle had left her behind up north, huddled in a cave alone, betrayed by someone she’d considered a friend and then abandoned by her only family, to chase after Stiles and John. She squared her shoulders, throwing off the hurt she’d been ignoring for weeks. She would have to earn their respect and loyalty as an alpha, a sister, a niece back, that’s all. She would have plenty of time.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, chapter 5 on Monday (in my timezone anyway...) New character tags will be added in the next chapter which I probably will post on the twenty-third. Thank you for reading and your comments <3

They arrived at a broken down city at the water’s edge. Part of it had collapsed into the water and there were actual docks built over the shallows where most of the wreckage had settled. The docks were made of different shades and types of wood, uneven but sturdy enough and new. Stiles leaned over the side of the boat, trying to see beyond the half-collapsed buildings and into the city. He couldn’t imagine what kind of supplies they could be getting from here, but Ari, Ripley, and Alden had been bringing crates of fish up to the top deck since they’d docked, like they planned to trade a lot, which meant there was someone to trade _with._

“Why are we docking?” Stiles asked when he couldn’t hold his tongue any longer. “I thought we were just picking your people up.” 

“They’re deeper in,” Ari answered. “It isn’t safe to hang out around the docks, so when we do stuff like this, they get what we need and wait for the rest of us.”

Stiles looked back toward the docks, but he couldn’t see anything moving. “Why isn’t it safe?”

Ripley set a crate down. “Later in the day, you could get jumped if you’re standing around with a bunch of supplies.” He lifted a brow at Stiles. “You planning on staying?”

Stiles’s hand clenched on the strap of his bag. He was hesitant to leave everything on the ship, but also worried about taking it all with, so he’d compromised by splitting things up. He had a sheaf of papers in his bag that he’d been carrying for a while; with John frustrated at him, he’d had nothing much to do when it was his turn to take watch at night during their travels, so he’d begun writing down some of his spells; he’d learned early on that other witches would trade supplies for spells of defensive nature or even battle magic, due to the hostility of the world. It was the only thing he had to offer aside from the small Book of Shadows a dying witch had given him, and he didn’t plan to trade it away. 

“No,” he mumbled to Ripley, turning his head. “Just paranoid.” 

Ripley huffed, like he agreed. 

It would be easier if Stiles had his _own_ Book of Shadows, where he’d written not only his spells, but his steps taken to _learn_ the spells, but he’d forgotten that back in Beacon Hills, _if_ it’d even survived the bombs. 

Maybe his scribbled spells would garner something useful here, though he was doubtful. The crew seemed to think there were plenty of people here, but Stiles hadn’t seen a large group before Ari rescued them the whole time he and John had been awake. 

“Jamel, Rosalva, and Nadine will watch the ship for us. If we aren’t back by sundown,” Ari added, “leave. Come back in the morning.”

“You got it, cap,” Rosalva chirped.

Stiles and John carried crates of fish down to a flatbed cart Ripley had on the dock with wheels that screeched like wailing demons when moved. 

Alden was tense and quiet as they moved off the dock together, but as they splashed from dock to damp, cracked asphalt, he elbowed Stiles lightly and pointed. 

There was a sign hanging crookedly from one of the upper floors of a broken building, cobbled together with varying materials to spell out MAD HOLLOW in uneven font. It was broken and water damaged, but clearly a chosen name, strung up high and proud. 

It smelled like stagnant lake water, burned wood, fish, and a sour smell like the fading odor of sewage as they picked their way around broken pipes and cracks in the road too big to walk over. The air had a damp chill to it, and the sun seemed duller here, like it couldn’t breach the aura of gloom. There weren’t any cars. Stiles’s head whipped around when he realized it, but he wasn’t just missing them: they were in what was once a city and there were no broken down cars anywhere, ready to explode at the slightest provocation. Broken up buildings, glass glittering on the ground, trash scattered here and there, but no vehicles. There was a partially melted advertisement for RedBull on the side of a squat red brick building, a bike laid on its side with melted wheels.

Stiles looked to Ari, opening his mouth to ask about the cars, and paused. He could hear voices. Not just a voice, or a couple furtive whispers of people fleeing from a large group, but many, the swell of chatter of a gathering, accompanied by a drastic change in scent: salt water, yes, but also cooking meat, the sharp tang of spices, the sizzle of magic. Stiles flung out his senses like a fishing net, and nearly fell back at the life that pulsed back at him. He sensed witches and vampires, psychics, werewolves, kinetics, something like Ari, even things he couldn’t really understand. 

Ari was smirking to herself but said nothing as they followed what Stiles realized was a subtle path around a corner, between two crumbling buildings and onto a side street. 

It was wider than he was expecting, and cleaner, the food-scents stronger. Everything seemed to have a splash of color, a breath of life, over here, as if the rest of the city was in grayscale. The most shocking, however, were the people. There were rough stalls set up, wobbly tables, and blankets spread on the ground with items on them like a patchwork flea market. 

One table had rough-made tools, bent and welded from materials scavenged from the bones of society, and another had dishes carved from wood. There were fabrics, meats, even jars of what Stiles thought was ink. Even more stunning than the stalls and the people offering stuff to trade were the groups wandering from stall to blanket to table like they were shopping. 

They were clustered in tight, anxious groups, true, but it was so stunningly similar to a _mall_ that Stiles just froze. His mind felt blank and slow to understand, like a semblance of normalcy was too much to compute.

Ari snickered under her breath.

Stiles shook himself. He saw jackets, better made than the ones he and John had had to ditch due to the rain ruining the wool, potion jars, vegetables, fruit—live animals. He wished he had more than spells to trade—what would a vampire want with an inverted heat shield spell?

“Here.” Ripley shoved a crate into Stiles’s arms and walked ahead, dragging his cart with him.

“Get what you need,” Alden explained when Stiles and John looked at each other. 

“How did this happen?” Stiles asked, adjusting his grip on the crate. He watched a group of faeries trade some jarred plants for vegetables. 

Ari shrugged. “Figured out they could offer stuff they have in excess for things they can’t get.”

He shook his head. “But—there’s so many people. In one place. I didn’t think there were many settlements.”

“There aren’t, and it really isn’t one.” She gestured at a…vendor, for lack of better word. “They have their hidden homes and come here during the day to trade.”

“Wow.” He looked around again. “How long has it been here?”

“About four years or so. It’s never been attacked, so it’s had a chance to grow. Everyone here is tough,” she added with a certain pride in her voice. “They’ve made it clear they’ll fight back, made this place their own.” She shrugged. “Sometimes people get jumped, but it’s mostly at the docks by people who can’t find the hollow.” She clapped John on the shoulder. “Stay close, but get yourselves some stuff. Don’t let them fleece you, either,” she added sternly. “One or two of those fish per item will almost always do, if not less.” She flicked her fingers. “Walk away if they say otherwise.”

John nodded seriously, fighting a smile. “Alright. Thank you.”

She nodded back and caught up to Ripley, pulling her jacket straight. 

Stiles blew out a breath. “This is _weird,_ ” he said. 

John snorted. “You’re telling me. I feel like we just stepped back in time.” He ran a hand over the back of his head, looking around as much as Stiles had, just taking in the sights. 

Stiles spotted two elves at a table with folded clothes stacked on it, even bags. The clasps were made of intricately carved wood, but Stiles had eyes only for the jackets that seemed to be made of cotton rather than wool. Cotton would hold up much better if they got caught in the rain again, and would probably dry better, too. He hurried to the table, nearly tripping over a woman who glowered at him, but his arms were burning and shaking too much for him to care. He set the crate on the ground in front of the table. 

The elf with deep green hair eyed him. “¿Que?” He pursed his lips, eyeing Stiles up and down. “Tak?” 

“Uh…” His gaze swung helplessly to the other elf.

She elbowed the guy. “English.”

“Oh.” He waved a hand. “Yes?”

“I—uh, I’d like…two…jackets?”

He narrowed his eyes.

John stepped up beside Stiles. “We’d like to trade some fresh caught fish for a couple jackets. Are you interested?” 

“We are,” the green-haired elf said. “Why don’t you find some that fit and we’ll discuss cost?”

“Perfect.”

The elves introduced themselves as Sage and Willow while they were trying jackets on.

“How’d you make these?” Stiles asked once he’d found a blue jacket with tiny wooden owls as the buttons; John was still trying some on.

The elves hesitated, glancing at each other. “Our witch is talented with textile magic,” Willow said finally. “We have cotton plants and she manipulates it into clothing.” 

“I carve the buttons,” Sage bragged.

“They’re amazing,” Stiles said honestly. He looked over at John when he found a jacket, then at the elves. “Would you…I have spells to trade,” he said, making himself stand straighter. “If you’d rather a couple of those instead of fish.”

Willow’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of spells?”

Stiles thought for a moment. “Fireballs and a shield. If you’d rather the fish…”

“Show us the fireball spell.”

Stiles smirked and lifted a hand. White hot flames crackled to life, curling and bending into themselves until they formed a blue-orange ball of fire in his hand. It wasn’t his strongest fire spell in the least, but it was an attack spell, one he knew would be useful to witches without many offensive spells.

Sage muttered something in another language, shrugging when Willow snapped something back at him. 

“Alright, we’ll trade the jackets for the two spells,” she said.

Stiles grinned.

Alden was a few tables down from them, trading fish for a bundle of flat sliced wood, and Ari and Ripley were a little ways ahead, talking to each other in the middle of the street. 

Stiles carefully folded his new jacket into his bag after paying for it, then waited for John so they could catch up to Ari and Ripley. He prodded magically at the auras around him, soaking up the energy like a flower in the sun. He turned a slow circle when he sensed magic and caught sight of a pair of women on a blanket between two stalls, chatting. They didn’t have anything to trade, but they seemed to be doing well anyway, given the stack of supplies behind them in cotton bags. He squeezed John’s arm. “Stay with them,” he mumbled, not looking away from the women. “I’ll be back.”

“Stiles-”

“I’m only gonna be a few feet away,” he said, shaking him off. “Just stay with Alden.” He heard John sigh noisily, but he walked away anyway, heading straight for the witch/psychic duo who were by that point watching him back.

The psychic had dusty blonde hair and cat-green eyes, tracking him as he made his way up the path.

The witch had short, uneven brown hair and a quick smile as she recognized his magic; he felt the brush of hers feeling his aura and touched back, like a handshake. She smiled again. “I thought so. I’m Erin, this is Grace.”

“Stiles. I just have a question-”

“We can try,” Grace said before he could ask. “But it’s deeper than you think.”

Erin sighed. “She does that. Mind clueing me in on what we’re trying?”

Stiles knelt in front of their blanket and shoved his sleeve up.

Erin gasped, but it was Grace who reached out to touch, her fingers cold against the mark.

“Mmhm,” she murmured. Her eyes flicked up to his, pinning him in place. “You tried to cut it off.”

He grimaced. “Yes.” He glanced involuntarily at John, but he was out of earshot. “But the knife made no mark.” 

“Not even a scrape.”

Erin had both hands over her mouth, her own expression so horrified that Stiles could hardly look at it.

“We can try to get it off, but I don’t think it’ll work. We’re not powerful enough,” Grace said simply. “But we can try anyway.” She curled her fingers around Stiles’s wrist, tugging him closer, and reached out for Erin. 

Erin put her hand over the mark; her fingers were shorter and thicker than the other witch’s, but she lined them up as well as she could. “Together?”

Stiles nodded. “Everything I’ve tried has failed, so I’ll follow your lead.”

Grace put a hand on both of their shoulders, connecting the three of them.

Erin’s magic rumbled like an earthquake, deep and steady and thrumming with life, pulsing down into the brand.

Stiles followed the path her magic laid, a blaze in the wake of her steady march. 

Grace made a noise behind them, nails digging in.

Stiles winced as the mark grew colder, resisting their efforts. The cold spread and worsened until he couldn’t breathe, like ice was encasing his lungs.

Erin whimpered, her hand flexing on his arm. 

“Enough.” Grace shoved them apart.

Stiles crumpled forward, huddling over his burned arm.

“I’m sorry,” Erin gasped.

He shook his head, but he hadn’t gotten his breath back to answer. 

Grace moved between Stiles and Erin, pressing her hand under Stiles’s guard so she could touch the brand again. “Whatever you’ve been doing has been working,” she said.

Stiles finally managed to sit up again, still struggling to breathe. “What else?” he rasped, because her face looked grave. 

“She’s furious that it’s working. She’s not following any of the trails anymore because she’s trying to unravel the spell you’re doing to create them.” Her hand tightened. “You need to keep running, because she’s powerful. Keep doing what you’re doing and keep running.”

He nodded, swallowing dryly. “What’s her name?”

Grace eyed him. “Does it matter?”

He nodded again. “I like to know who’s trying to kill me.”

She smirked a little. “Alright. She’s Della Summers, and she’s—not supposed to have magic.”

He lifted a brow. “Meaning?”

Grace let go and shrugged. “I don’t know, that’s just what I got. She’s a witch, but she isn’t supposed to have magic.”

Stiles pressed his fingers to the brand and scattered the tracking spell, shuddering as he did.

Erin leaned around Grace’s shoulder. “That _is_ a neat little spell,” she said with a weak smile.

Stiles swallowed and looked at Grace. “She’s far away, right?”

“I think so. She doesn’t know where _you_ are, but she’s looking.” She sighed quietly, lowering her head. “I wish we could have helped.”

Stiles shook his head. “Thank you for trying—and what you told me is helpful. Really.” He got back to his feet. When he reached John, Ari had wandered off to argue with a kinetic about meat, and Ripley was asking if John was really a sheriff. 

“Yes,” he said, amused. 

“My mom was the chief of police in our county,” he said with an awkward little smile. “I figured you’d just found the shirt somewhere.”

“A reasonable assumption, but no. I figure they’re holding up pretty well.” He glanced over at Stiles, a worried frown on his face. “What happened?” 

Stiles rubbed his eyes. “Just thought that psychic might be able to help me with something.”

Ripley eyed him thoughtfully. 

“While you were talking, we got some soap, socks, and some first aid stuff.” John gestured at their considerably emptier fish crate. 

“Oh, good. Thanks.”

Over by one of the tables, Ari’s voice rose, arguing with a kinetic about the assortments of meat he was selling.

He had a fiery aura, probably a pyrokinetic, and the look he shot Ari suggested she’d better back up unless she wanted to be roasted like the meat. 

“You’re not the only one here with meat,” she said flatly. “I’m not playing this game.”

He lifted a hand, flames dancing on his fingertips.

Ari pursed her lips like she was blowing him a kiss and fire came from her mouth, a short burst but impressive considering where it’d come from. “Bye.”

Ripley shook his head. “Better move,” he mumbled, tugging on his cart. 

John looked at Stiles, bemused, but before he could ask, the kinetic shot fire at Ari.

She didn’t bother dodging, taking the golden-orange stream of flames directly to the face. It rolled down her shoulders like a cape, and her wings snapped out, knocking a nearby vampire on his ass. The fire fizzled out, leaving faint burns on her clothes, but her skin and hair seemed fine, her copper wings gleaming in the sun.

Stiles jerked a little, shocked at himself. _Wyvern_ , the mermaid had called, and Ari had come. Cousins of dragons, shape shifters, and, obviously, fireproof to some extent. 

A pyrokinetic had no chance. 

Ari shook her wings and slowly folded them back in. “That was _rude,_ ” she said sternly. “Keep your cow. Hey,” she barked at one of the stalls on the other side of the street. “You got beef?”

“Yep!”

She grinned slyly at the kinetic and swaggered away. 

It took some bargaining, a fist fight, and the rest of the fish, but Ari secured frozen beef from a witch, loose wool, some cotton, ink and paper, and two knives made by elves, which she promptly held out to Stiles and John when she finished fighting with an older guy who Stiles was pretty sure was also a wyvern. Now that he knew what to look for, it was easy to recognize. 

Ari grinned, licking blood from her split lip, and waggled the knives. The fight had resolved with laughter and playful shoulder punches, so Stiles assumed it had gone well. “Take ’em. Your magic might not save you every time.”

Stiles took the one she held out to him. “Thanks.”

John was slower, but eventually took the other, frowning dubiously at the curved blade. 

“Come on, the rest of the crew is in a building up here, away from the crowds.” She knocked elbows with Ripley. “It’ll be nice to have Asher back.”

“Yeah.”

Alden caught up and deposited several jars and bags on the hand truck, offering to take it from Ripley considering the extra weight, but Ripley just shrugged him off.

The little market extended down both sides of the street for about a hundred yards of stalls, blankets, and makeshift tables, people chattering and looking at handmade items, scavenged supplies, and witches offering to enchant things. They typically had another person or two with them, like bodyguards, which Stiles understood. 

The buildings were barely noticeable along the street, and most of the trash had been cleared away; Stiles saw movement and turned to see that some stalls were down an alley, quieter, but still surprising in a pleasant way. It looked so freakishly normal, a woman leaning over a table, examining a piece of white cloth, tucking her stringy blonde hair behind her ear. 

Stiles looked away, toward Ari, who was striding ahead, cutting through the tiny clusters of people with ease, then toward Ripley, who was watching the others warily. Alden’s eyes were glowing gold like he was nervous, but otherwise looked relaxed. John was tense and watchful, though Stiles was sure he was the only one who noticed.

Ari pointed at a building, the roof broken and jutting into the sky above the others around them. “Heading there. This would be faster if you guys could fly,” she added with a longsuffering sigh. 

Alden rolled his eyes. “Winged werewolves. Can you imagine?” He flashed his fangs at Ari and laughed when she stuck her tongue out.

“I’m just pointing out that it _would_ be faster.” She swung her arms restlessly and kicked at a chunk of cement. 

Stiles examined the buildings around them; as they left the market behind, there was more trash and debris in the street, and the buildings were more noticeable. The cracks running up the sides looked like spider webs, thin and spreading from a central point. A pigeon the size of an eagle and sporting bright white and gold feathers landed in the window above their heads, ruffling its feathers noisily. 

Ripley looked up at it, rolling his shoulders reflexively. 

Stiles noticed the thin slits in the back of his shirt where his wings could slip out; black and gray feathers rustled in the breeze that blew the scent of the sea through the street. He wondered how such big wings folded up so compact, but they were barely visible; the same was true of Ari’s wings, too, just a vague outline and glimmer of copper in the cuts of her shirt. 

Ari let out a shrill whistle while he was still contemplating this, stopping outside of a crumbling gray building with a single, red **F** on the side, hanging by a thick bundle of wires. 

Ripley stopped on the sidewalk, leaning his elbow on the handle of the flatbed. 

A returning whistle came from the inside of the building, low and melodic.

Ari grinned, expression going eager. “Yeah, it’s us!”

A boy gamboled out of the doors—he had shaggy blond hair and a very young face, the left side spattered with freckles, the right twisted by scars like claw marks from just under his eye and down his neck. They looked old and didn’t take away from the brilliant smile he shot at all of them. “You guys took _forever,_ I thought you were dead.” He tumbled into Alden’s arms, reminding Stiles of a puppy with oversized paws. 

Alden rubbed a hand over his head. “We got a little busy.”

More people came out of the building while Stiles was trying to figure out what might’ve caused the scars on the boy’s face and berating himself for paying attention to them at all. He shifted his focus to trying to guess how old he was; he looked _really_ young. 

“Asher, what is that?” Ari barked suddenly. Before anyone answered, she said, “We agreed on chickens! _Just_ chickens!” 

Stiles turned, intending to get a look at the witch he’d been hearing so much about, and his breath caught in his throat. 

“—picked up a couple strays, no big deal—” Alden was saying to the boy, while Ari was yelling about sheep.

His vision seemed to pulse as he glimpsed a flash of strawberry blonde hair over the witch’s shoulder, the curve of a strong jaw behind a curvy woman with a gun strapped over her back. Panic jolted through him, but—but surely not. They were dead. 

Except then Asher and the woman moved, carrying the supplies they were holding closer, and the two behind them noticed Stiles. They looked different, older and tougher, but they were both paling and dropping the supplies they were carrying, gasping audibly. 

The woman—he couldn’t think her name, couldn’t because this couldn’t be real—said, “ _Stiles?_ ” and


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gonna add new character tags after this has been up all day! :* I hope you enjoy it, next chapter on the twenty-ninth.

Stiles wasn’t sure who moved first, but he, Lydia, and Boyd all collided with a wounded cry and collapsed to the sidewalk. Stiles hadn’t seen Lydia Martin cry since fifth grade when a teacher refused to regrade her wrongly graded math quiz, but she was crying now, and so was Boyd, all three of them were as they clung to each other. Stiles’s ears were ringing with panic and joy, so loud that he didn’t realize for a moment that they were all talking over each other, trying to understand how this was possible. 

Boyd was patting Stiles over like he wasn’t sure he was real, digging his fingers into his back, pinching his ribs and arms. 

Lydia just dropped her head on his shoulder and sobbed, great, heaving sobs that shook the tangled mass they’d become. 

Boyd looked up and instantly tensed all over. After a frozen second, he scrambled to his feet, nearly knocking Stiles and Lydia flat. 

Stiles turned his face out of Lydia’s hair to see where he was going. 

Boyd ran up to John, then froze a foot away, just staring. Very carefully, he lifted one arm and prodded John’s shoulder. He looked stunned when he made contact.

John grabbed him up in a tight, back-slapping hug. 

“ _How_?” Boyd demanded, his voice raw. 

Ari cleared her throat. “Excuse me. As happy as I _am_ for all of you…I think…we need to get our stuff back to the ship before we attract attention.”

Stiles wiped his nose on his sleeve and finally noticed the supplies. There was another flatbed cart loaded with stuff and… “Why-” He had to clear his throat. “Why do you have chickens?”

“Eggs,” Ari replied simply.

They were large, turkey sized at least, with fluffy feathers, and locked in wire cages atop a stack of metal crates. 

“We’ve got food for them and eggs will add an extra protein to our supplies.”

Lydia finally sat back, wiping tears from her face. “You still look twenty-one,” she sniffled.

Stiles laughed wetly and brushed loose hair off her cheek. “You, too,” he said even though he was lying.

She pinched his arm. “We’ll talk on the ship.”

“Listen,” a guy with light brown-blond hair and misty gray eyes said to Ari, “with this, I can make us clothes.” He stroked the head of a hot pink sheep, which was attached to a loose rope he had in hand.

“Asher, it’s _pink_ , and we don’t have food for it.”

“She’s coming with or I’m not.” He set his jaw.

Ari eyed the sheep. “You’ve got to stop getting attached to things, we don’t have room.”

“Uh, you first.” He looked at Stiles and John.

Lydia rose to her feet like an avenging angel, hands hooked into claws. 

Asher raised his hands, apparently familiar enough with her formidable temper to back off immediately. “Sorry, sorry. But seriously, I can get some practice with textile magic if I have an endless supply of wool to use.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that we don’t have food for it.”

“I can _grow_ food for it, and we don’t really have space for the chickens, either.”

Ari glared. “I don’t-”

“I think we should keep it.”

She looked at Ripley, then let out a noisy breath. “Ugh, fine. If it jumps overboard, I’m not jumping in after it.”

“Fine.” 

Asher glanced at Stiles, frowning, and flicked his power out, a magical handshake that Stiles responded to automatically. He frowned deeper.

The walk back to the docks seemed to take forever and fly by in the blink of an eye at the same time. Stiles kept quiet the entire time, wide eyed and dazed. He couldn’t stop staring alternately at both Lydia and Boyd, with glances at his father thrown in to make sure he hadn’t lost his mind.

They were older, and comfortable with the crew, and—they were alive, how, how were they alive? He’d hoped, of course, but a distant hope, one to hold onto and probably never see realized. Lydia had a knife sheathed at her hip, Boyd had two, and they were wearing the same kind of patchy, roughhewn clothes the rest of the crew was outfitted in. 

The next time he glanced at him, Boyd was looking back, awed and fascinated, making Stiles smile reflexively. Boyd’s returning smile was brief and familiar, a flash of teeth before he looked away again. 

Stiles took a breath and made himself look at the other crew members. 

The woman with the gun across her back was short and curvy, a werewolf, with red hair cut short so it waved around her face like a sunburst. She had several weapons on her and seemed to have an easy comradery with Ari, Ripley, and Asher, despite being several years older than them. 

The boy noticed Stiles’s gaze on him and promptly introduced himself as Wyatt Criswell, and announced that he was eighteen, perhaps to distract from the scars on his face. It worked. 

“Eigh _teen?_ ” John repeated. “So you were…”

“Eight when the bombs went off,” Wyatt said. He had a sort of bubbly aura, which made it stranger to imagine him at eight, wandering the streets and surviving. “Jamel found me and then Alden after a few months, but I think I was doing okay.”

Alden ruffled his hair. “Better than a lot of people would’ve.”

“At that age? It’s a wonder you survived.” John looked worried, which Stiles thought was funny. 

Wyatt looked pleased. “That’s Lise and Asher,” he said, as if he’d decided someone should introduce everyone else, and it might as well be him. “And I guess you know Lydia and Boyd.” 

Stiles nodded, his throat going tight just hearing their names. 

“I’m John, and this is Stiles,” he said, glancing at Stiles uncertainly. “Ari saved us from a flood.” 

Wyatt laughed a little. “Yeah, she does that.” He said it wistfully, casting a look up toward her.

Ari was walking beside Asher, their heads tipped together as they spoke, her touching his arm or hand or shoulder every other sentence. 

Stiles suspected that Wyatt’s crush was doomed, but didn’t say so.

Lise cast a suspicious look back at Stiles, appraising and curious, her nose twitching. When she realized he’d noticed her, she just bared all of her teeth in a grin and turned back around. 

Loading the boat took more time than unloading, given the annoyed chickens and nervous sheep, but soon enough, everyone and everything was on board, sorted and being put away while Ari and Ripley got the ship moving.

Lydia and Boyd silently helped Stiles and John take their newly acquired supplies to their cabin.

“We should talk,” Lydia said, depositing an armful of first aid supplies on Stiles’s bed.

Stiles set his bag down and cast out his senses gingerly. He still couldn’t quite believe these weren’t clever shapeshifters, so he felt at them. He jolted as connections snapped into place, vibrant and powerful as if they’d never been missing: Lydia’s was tinged purple now, overlapping the blue-green ties they’d all once shared and Boyd’s was shadowed with an energy that Stiles didn’t understand, but he recognized it; it was the energy he’d sensed in the bottom of the boat. 

A hand closed on Stiles’s arm, steadying him when he swayed. Boyd’s worried eyes bored into his as he kept him on his feet, an expression like pain crossing his face. “Are you alright?”

He nodded, swallowing. “Yeah. Lydia’s right, we need to talk.”

“Good. Come on, there’s more space in our room.”

Stiles wasn’t that surprised when they led him and John to the room he’d been drawn to; Lydia drifted to the bed on the right, trailing her fingers over the hairbrush and perfume bottle before sitting. 

“You guys can sit on my bed,” Boyd offered quietly, and set beside Lydia. 

Stiles wanted to sit beside them, but decided they were all still too raw and shocked for that, and carefully perched on the edge of Boyd’s bed. They all looked at John, still in the doorway. 

He rubbed his face and finally crossed to sit with Stiles, just staring across the room. “I’m so glad you kids are alive,” he said, the first to break the silence. “We were sure you’d all…”

Lydia nodded, wiping her eyes impatiently. “We thought that, too.” She squeezed her hands into fists. 

Stiles knew they had to be anxious to hear his and John’s story, but he blurted, “Tell us what happened. Please.”

Lydia glanced at Boyd, then sighed and nodded. She stood and leaned over the table, fighting with the window latch until the pane folded forward over the table, letting in cool sea air. Her shoulders moved with her deep, steadying breath before she turned to face them. “It was a while ago, so some of the details have…faded, but my mother and I were in San Francisco that day.” An expression of pain and loss crossed her face, and Stiles knew Natalie hadn’t made it. “I don’t really remember why.”

“You were shopping,” Stiles mumbled. When she looked at him sharply, he swallowed and said, “You guys were going shopping because Natalie wanted a girls’ day.”

She nodded slowly and murmured, “Right. I texted you about it.” She brushed a hand over her ponytail, fighting with the tangles. “Well, as you know, the bombs were launched, and everyone got an emergency alert on their phone. Some people flipped, others ignored it—but obviously the panic was the worst. People were running and shoving each other into the street, fighting…where were they going?” She lifted her hands in a helpless gesture, her gaze distant and glazed, lost in memory. “Mom and I just froze—what were we supposed to do? We had shopping bags, we were standing on a sidewalk…I was wearing heels. And people…” She looked at Stiles, smiling slightly. “People started using magic in the street, hundreds of them—way more than I would’ve expected. There were a surprising amount of witches in San Francisco,” she added.

Stiles laughed dryly. “Yeah.”

She pushed loose hair off her face. “They started doing something weird—they gathered in the street, a big cluster of them. One of them just blasted a car that tried to drive through them.” She flicked her fingers to demonstrate. “Obviously my mom was freaking out, but I wanted to see—I wasn’t going to die without seeing it coming,” she added, throwing her chin up like a challenge. “The witches started doing something weird, something I’d never seen you do before.”

“Pooling their magic,” Stiles murmured. 

She nodded. “Mom dragged me away, wanting to find cover, everyone was trying to find cover. We ended up in some tiny store before the explosion.” She shuddered. “You couldn’t even really hear it, at first. Glass exploded and we were all thrown off our feet, _then_ this deep crack like a firework, and then this intense heat, like we were being deep fried.” She crossed her arms and stared out the window, eyes gleaming. Silence fell while she struggled against tears, heavy with the story she’d told.

Stiles looked at Boyd, but he was staring at the floor, his jaw clenched. He wanted to ask _how_ Lydia had survived, but he couldn’t make himself break this quiet.

Lydia did it herself. “While everyone was dying, I felt the magic crawl over me. I recognized it because of you.” She smiled briefly at Stiles. “But this was different, it hurt. It…felt like I was being gutted.” Her hands skimmed over her stomach, clenching in her shirt. “Then like I was being flayed alive, my skin hurt, it hurt to breathe, to exist.” She held up her left hand, where a thick scar cut through her palm. “I clenched my hand on some glass while it was happening, and had to dig it out when I woke up.” She swallowed. “My mom was dead when I regained consciousness.” 

“Lydia,” John murmured, and her face crumpled. 

She turned away, sucking in air to try and compose herself. “It—it’s—everyone was dead, not just my mom. I was surrounded by bodies and it was so _loud._ ” She shook her head slightly as if just the memory of the noise was too much. “I went outside to see if anyone was around to help and there were just…bodies. Everywhere. Buildings were smoldering, broken and collapsing, the air was just smoke, all smoke. The witches were dead.” She met Stiles’s eyes. “They were all in the street, blood coming from their ears and noses, their eyes were just smoking hollows.” 

Stiles nodded, though he couldn’t help the grimace that caught his mouth. He’d suspected as much, but it was different hearing it. “How did you survive?”

She inhaled, exhaled, and looked at her hands. “My grandmother was a banshee. We thought it skipped my mom and me, so we never really talked about it. When I woke up…I could sense the dead around me, could feel every body and soul there.” She looked at Boyd. “That’s how we found each other.” She sniffled. “We thought you died like those other witches.”

“Banshee,” Stiles repeated, trying to wrap his mind around it. “You knew _before_ the bombs that you had supernatural family.”

She nodded. “But it never applied to me, so I never mentioned it. How was I supposed to bring it up?” she snapped, as if sensing his annoyance. “After you told us about your magic? Like a little kid trying desperately to prove I was special, too? It wasn’t worth it, since I _wasn’t_ one.”

Stiles nodded. “You’re right. Sorry.”

She relaxed. “Go on, Boyd,” she murmured. “You know he’s just gonna keep asking until you tell him.”

He sighed like he did know. “My story’s basically the same as Lydia’s, except I was in downtown Beacon County, shopping for Erica’s birthday present. There were fewer witches there, but they all did what the ones in San Francisco did. It was like when we got the emergency alert, they got some other message, too, all of them moving at once.” He rubbed his hands against his legs. “When the magic hit _me_ , it felt like someone drilled into my skull and started scrambling my brain.” He closed his eyes. “It was crowded and foggy when I woke up; some witch was talking to me, trying to help me wake up, but I was confused and there were so many of them…”

Stiles frowned. “Of who?”

He met Stiles’s gaze. “Ghosts. I’m a necromancer.” His mouth twisted with distaste, eyes flicking off to the side. “The witch was dead, but he was trying to keep me from panicking when I woke up surrounded by ghosts. It didn’t work.” He cleared his throat. “For a few years, I didn’t know _what_ I was. I’d never heard of anyone in my family being able to speak to or see the dead.” He folded his hands together, fingertips going white as he squeezed. “I tried to go back to Beacon Hills to find everyone, my family, you guys,” he said quietly. “There were so many ghosts everywhere, so many people recently dead, that I got lost.” He tipped his head to Lydia. “They did help us find each other, though.” He swallowed, gaze dropping. “They’re gone,” he added, sensing John and Stiles’s gazes on him. "My whole family. I found their ghosts, after I learned how to look for them." 

Stiles squeezed his hands together. Natalie. Mr. and Mrs. Boyd, Alisha. 

“We roamed from group to group for a while,” Lydia said at last, pulling them out of their quiet grief. “Hoping to find you guys, any of you.” 

Stiles lowered his head as guilt crept up on him. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I should’ve protected you guys.”

“We were too far away,” Boyd pointed out. “But it’s your turn now. How’d John survive when every other human died? How do you look so young still?”

Stiles glanced at John, who gestured at him to go ahead. He rubbed his eyes, shame making his cheeks hot. “Boyd was right—the witches _did_ get a message other than the emergency alert. From the collective.”

Lydia’s brows furrowed, but Boyd’s expression went thoughtful—Stiles had drunkenly rambled about them to him before. “What’s the collective?”

“They’re like…They _were_ like our law enforcement and historians. They initiated young witches who didn’t have anyone else to do it, made sure witches weren’t exposing the rest of us, and they had the largest collections of Books of Shadows and Grimoires in the world. A lot of witches gave them copies or even the originals of their own BoS before they died so other witches could access it after they were gone. Kind of like a library run by magical generals,” he tried. “They had ways to send messages to all witches in emergencies and when they found out the threat was real, they decided the usual rules of secrecy were moot if everyone was going to die. They wanted all witches to pool their magic and attack the nukes at once, before they could hit their targets.” He swallowed and looked away. “But the collective had been basically librarians for years, since witch hunts stopped, and their plan was going to fail.” He looked at his lap. “I tried to argue with them, explain why we should do shielding magic instead, but there wasn’t time and everyone was panicking.”

John squeezed his shoulder and left his hand there. 

It helped with the guilt. “So I didn’t help,” he admitted like a terrible secret. “I called Dad home and did the only thing I could think of—a preservation and shield spell I’d mashed up on the fly and hoped it would work.” He opened his hands in front of him.

“And it did,” John finished. “Very well. We weren’t hurt or even aware of anything for ten years. Didn’t age, didn’t notice time passing. Like falling asleep.” 

Stiles still felt guilty, like he should’ve been able to keep Lydia and Boyd from suffering everything they’d gone through, but how would he have done that? Boyd was right. They’d been too far away. That was part of the problem with the collective’s plan, too. He looked up. “So…I guess you haven’t found anyone else.”

Lydia frowned. “We’ve searched. We’re getting pretty good with our powers and Boyd…”

He straightened and met Stiles’s eyes, then John’s. “I think they’re still alive.”

Stiles breathed. The quiet whoosh of air moving through his lungs was all he could hear or understand. In. Out. Vision pulsing again. Hope was painful, like his ribcage cracking open. 

“Why do you think that?” John’s voice came from far away, familiarity at the end of the tunnel.

“Because I’ve figured out how to summon ghosts—specific ghosts, my family, Lydia’s…yours,” he mumbled, “but I can’t find _them._ I’ve looked for Danny, Erica, Scott, Mrs. McCall, Jackson, you two. None of them ever come when I call, like the others do.” 

Stiles felt like the world was collapsing again. Hope.

“How did you guys get here? The boat,” Lydia clarified. 

John glanced at Stiles, then answered, “Ari found us in a tight spot and saved us.” 

Stiles focused on Lydia and Boyd’s faces. He was so glad they were alive. He had to warn them about Della Summers, but he just…needed to adjust to this now. He watched dazedly while John spoke to them. So Boyd was a necromancer; that explained the ancient, strong power he’d felt on the third deck, the candles. Necromancy was as old and powerful as witchcraft, but rarer, a cousin of witches and psychics with a connection to the dead. Just as misunderstood as witchcraft, too. 

Banshees were a different kind of power, psychics with just enough bite in their powerful screams to make them formidable. 

Stiles shouldn’t have been surprised. There’d been a reason he’d been drawn to his friends, hadn’t there? A reason they’d so easily accepted his magic. When an easy silence fell, he finally told them about the witch tracking him. He showed them the mark on his arm and explained. 

Boyd nodded. “We’ve heard of her. Didn’t know her name, though, most people call her the Ice Witch. Very inventive,” he added with an eye roll. “We’ve met some of her victims in passing, that’s what they call her.”

Stiles nodded. “She’s got plans and she’s pissed at me and Dad.” 

“Wait, why Dad?” Lydia blurted, and John turned his head to hide his smile. They’d all taken to calling him “Dad” after a while, and, when he didn’t question it, they kept doing it. 

“He shot her,” Stiles said, since John wasn’t answering. “She’s kind of pissed at him about that.”

Boyd and Lydia turned to goggle at John. “You _shot_ at an angry witch?”

“Well, she was trying to stab Stiles at the time.”

Lydia looked at Boyd, then back at them. “You’ll be safe here. Asher is pretty powerful, and we’ve all seen your magic. She hasn’t found you yet.”

“Yeah, well…she’s been taking magic from other witches when she kills them. So, powerful or not, clearly she’s pretty strong and able to overpower other magic users.”

Lydia frowned, lowering her eyes. 

They stayed in the room a little longer, filling in details on both sides until there wasn’t much left to say. Even so, Stiles could tell he wasn’t the only one who didn’t want to leave this private bubble of discovery and joy, but the sun was already going down and they were all hungry, so they had to make the choice between eating and sitting together in silence. 

They went up for dinner together; Stiles wasn’t at all surprised to find the rest of the crew milling around pretending to look busy while doing nothing. The four of them had made quite a scene and then had disappeared without explaining anything to them. He was shocked no one had come down to eavesdrop. 

They cast curious sidelong glances at the four of them, but no one asked; Wyatt, by far the friendliest, ushered them over to the table where food had been set up—beef that’d been acquired from the market, vegetables, some apples. The chickens were roaming the deck, docile enough, clucking noisily while they explored. 

Stiles hung back with his food, observing Lydia and Boyd with the crew. They folded into the group easily, familiar and relaxed, and Stiles realized with a pang that these people were their family now. He knew they still cared for him and John, that they were happy they were alive, but it’d been a long decade for them, and they’d had to move on. He got it. He just wished it didn’t sting so much. 

He dreamt of the Hales again that night, his chest aching even in his sleep.   



	7. Chapter 7

Laura dropped her bag with a heavy thump, then followed it with a groan. Behind her, Peter sprawled out in the grass, stretching his arms above his head, palms pressed to the ground, toes pointed out straight. Derek folded to the ground next to him like a broken puppet, legs flopping out at odd angles. Laura eyed him surreptitiously while pulling her boots off. 

They’d had a long day, endless, fleeing from mountain lions that’d locked on their scents and decided they wanted a taste. The mountain lions could change colors, blending with their surroundings, hunting in a group. They had finally lost them, but kept going just in case. Laura wasn’t sure if they were territorial animals, so her goal was to make her pack into more trouble than dinner was worth, and she was pretty sure they’d succeeded just after sundown. 

Not without a price, of course. Laura was exhausted down to the bones and so were Peter and Derek, but _someone_ needed to keep watch. While technically Peter was an alpha, too, until otherwise stated, Laura was the alpha in charge, which meant she gave the orders and she took the worst lumps. She clapped her hands. “Okay, let’s eat and get some sleep.”

“ _You_ get some sleep,” Derek muttered. “You haven’t been getting much lately.”

She pulled her boots back on. “Well, I can’t sleep anyway, so you guys might as well let me take watch since I’ll be up.” She put her bag in her lap and dug in for a jar stuffed with burned beef they’d cooked the day before. The jar was one Stiles had put magic or a spell on, and kept whatever was inside of it fresh, so she used it often. She didn’t miss the way Derek refused to look at it.

He also didn’t argue with her about taking watch; he ate his dinner while staring at the fire Peter got going, then pulled his blanket out and curled up on his side, with his back to the fire. 

Peter watched him until Laura nudged his leg, reminding him to eat. He looked at her, eyes hooded with exhaustion.

“Just eat and go to bed.”

His jaw flexed and she caught her breath, sure he was going to speak, but then he let out a huff and ripped into his food with sharp teeth.

She looked away, annoyed. She’d always been able to rely on Peter for his commentary, his cutting remarks; always annoying her mother, pushing at her and teasing Laura that she’d make a better alpha than even Talia if she’d just listen to the rest of her pack on occasion instead of trying to do everything herself. 

Well, she was listening, and they weren’t talking. She couldn’t seem to make herself ask Peter why he refused to speak; she was afraid he wouldn’t answer or worse, that he would, and she wouldn’t be able to handle the answer. She wasn’t sure how much he remembered after the fire, but she suspected it was a lot. Maybe everything, even the pack he’d killed after the bombs, the one that’d been trying to kill her and Derek.

Laura finished her food and tucked the jar in her bag for safekeeping. She was pretty sure Stiles hadn’t made them unbreakable, so she’d been careful to wrap them in whatever spare clothes she had. 

Peter curled up next to Derek so their backs were touching and shut his eyes, backpack clamped in his arms. 

Laura looked away. Just watching him sleep like that made her neck hurt; she missed her bed and pillows. Well, she missed a lot of things, but a bed and pillows seemed like such a decadent luxury that it took on the tasty sheen of the forbidden to think about, so she wallowed in the longing. 

Once she was sure Peter and Derek were sleeping, she began writing names in the dirt beside her foot with her fingertip: Talia. Rob. Tyler. Clara. Mason. Cora. Sarah. Lost pack members, people she refused to forget, no matter how long it’d been. She traced their names gently, her clawed fingertip carving the letters deeper. When they packed up in the morning, she would stamp them out with her boot so Peter and Derek wouldn’t notice, but she liked to think of this as her own little spell, invoking their names and remembering who was lost for protection and courage. 

Derek shifted around in his sleep, letting out a little sigh that sounded like, “ _Stiles._ ”

She ran her hand through her hair, watching him twitch. He was probably arguing with Stiles in his dream, she decided. The two of them had argued plenty during their travels, it wasn’t strange. She looked away, back at the fire, still tracing idly. She didn’t notice when she stopped, or when the rest of her claws came out, her body tensing. Awareness shimmered over her, making her shoulders tighten, like electricity in the air. Slowly, she scanned over their little camp, but the trees around them were silent and still. 

A breeze drifted through, tugging lazily at the ends of her hair, teasing the flames of their fire higher. The air grew colder and in the light of the fire, Laura saw snow begin to fall. She made no movement to get her jacket or gloves, listening intently for footsteps or even a heartbeat. She closed her eyes and felt Derek and Peter next to her, safe, and felt John, far enough away to be the barest hint of a presence in her mind—and then Stiles, close-far, and then…very close.

Goosebumps shivered along her arms but she made herself hold still, examining the sensation. He _felt_ close, but no matter how she strained her ears, she couldn’t make out a heartbeat or breath in the woods that could be him. 

Derek relaxed in his sleep, falling abruptly from tense and restless to peaceful. Peter hummed and rolled over, burrowing against Derek’s side and going still again.

Laura felt it after him, a surge of reassurance, strength, confidence, like an encouraging pat on the back from someone she relied on. She felt…like someone was standing behind her, looking over her shoulder. Her hand clenched reflexively, clawing through the names of her family, and she whipped around. “Stiles?” She stared directly at where she’d felt him, sure that if she just looked harder, he would materialize. 

Snowflakes caught in her lashes but she refused to blink, lighting her eyes red to stare and—like a flash of white hot fire, a shape glimmered before her, a murky outline.

“Are you dead?” she whispered harshly. “Are you haunting us?” He didn’t _feel_ dead, and Laura knew what dead felt like. She’d never seen a ghost, but she could sense them occasionally. 

Warmth surged through her; the desire to protect her pack, the drive to keep them safe and with her, to lead them, brought a lump to her throat, made her eyes sting. She dropped her gaze. He wasn’t her responsibility anymore anyway. She looked at Derek, huddled under a ragged throw blanket, then Peter, curled up beside him. _They_ were her responsibility, and she owed them safety, security…home.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3

When he woke from the dream, Stiles made sure he didn’t lunge up this time. He stared into the dark, wide eyed. It felt so _real_ , like he was really watching over Derek as he slept, soothing away bad dreams with comforting magic through that silver cord. 

What was worse than that was Laura, mindlessly drawing in the dirt before turning to him, just like last time, staring into his eyes like she could see him; it’d looked like she’d said his _name_ , but he couldn’t hear her—couldn’t hear anything in the dream.

He rubbed his face. The dreams weren’t really happening, he wasn’t psychic in any way. He was just guilty and worried about them, and now even his sleep was haunted by them. He rubbed his chest, frowning as he recalled the dart of pain he’d felt, like an arrow, when Laura’s eyes lit up red. Like he was being pulled. 

He shook his head. Wherever the Hales were, they certainly didn’t want him back, and even if they did, it wouldn’t be safe for them. He needed to stay away from anyone he cared about.

People he cared for, people he wanted to keep safe…

His eyes snapped back open, remembering Lydia and Boyd in a rush. The surge of emotions laid him flat, unprepared as he was. He shoved a fist to his mouth to keep quiet, wary of waking John. It was a good thing, he knew it was good—he was just overwhelmed by the revelation, and groggy enough that his defenses were lowered. He thought about what Boyd said, how he thought everyone was alive, and more tears rolled from the corners of his eyes, soaking in his hair. He sucked in a breath and made himself calm down. He needed to talk to both of them, get an understanding of their powers, make sense of Boyd’s…prediction. He bit down on his knuckles. How could they be alive? How could he doubt it, how could he believe it?

Lydia, Boyd, death magic. Banshees could hear the call of the dead, could sense when it approached, but they needed practice to hear and understand. Necromancers could see and speak to the dead, control them—banishing, summoning, commanding. Even, rarely, bodies.

Stiles frowned, latching onto the distraction as it came to him. Was it rare for them to be able to command bodies or was it rare that they had access or _cause_ to command bodies? Before all this, he’d only gotten magical surges from protective magic, or from practicing battle magic. He’d never felt the incandescent rush of taking a life in the heat of battle before this because he’d never had a reason to.

He dried his eyes and cheeks on his blanket and rolled out of bed. The only way to learn more was to talk to Boyd and Lydia. He grabbed for his bag and grimaced, wondering if he could use some of the soap he and John got at Mad Hollow to do some kind of laundry. 

He slung the bag on and crept to the door, opening it a crack and peeking at John’s bed. 

He was still asleep, arms crossed over his eyes, mouth open.

Stiles snickered to himself and left the room, closing the door behind him with a quiet click that echoed in the hall. 

On the top deck, it was sunny and snowing, somehow, the air just over the line to cool. The sky was clear blue and crisscrossed with rainbows, going in all directions.

Asher was by the starboard side, tapping his fingers on the rail and frowning. Magic crackled around him, ready to be used and waiting for a command. 

Stiles sidled up to him. “Reinforcing the shields?”

Asher glanced down. “Yeah. Trying to keep out rain and snow, but also block physical threats.” 

Stiles felt at the shields, prodding the invisible cracks. “Layers? Weather on the outer, protection on the inner? Use the rail as a marker?” He swept his hands over the rail to demonstrate, feeling the grit that had built up over time against his palms. 

Asher tipped his head back. “Hmm. Maybe. You lead, so I can learn.”

Stiles nodded and worked the spells in steps, with Asher’s magic buzzing just behind, an eager student. Stiles’s shields were getting better, he could tell; he’d had practice using them on moving things, and the ship was easier than people. He shivered at the tiny surge of power he got from protective magic. 

“Yeah, I think that’ll work. Good idea.” Asher studied him. His eyes were the color of a heavy fog, direct and unreadable. “How do you know Lydia and Boyd?”

Stiles looked away first. “We were childhood friends.” It felt like shrinking what they all were to each other, but it was the easiest way to say it. _We’re family,_ he thought, and it was true. They had blood relatives, most of them, but no bonds as true or deep as the ones they’d forged between the seven of them, Jackson included. Stiles would have done anything for any of them, and knew without a shadow of doubt that they would do the same. _Childhood friends._ He felt Asher staring at him and looked up.

Asher’s expression was confused and doubtful, and it took him a second to understand why.

“Oh, we—hang on.” Amused, he leaned against the rail and explained about his spell, the decade he and John had lost while the snow fell in fluffy white sheets around them. 

Asher looked impressed, which was more flattering than anyone else being awed by it, considering he was a fellow magic user and actually understood the mechanics of the spell. “That must’ve taken a lot of magic.”

“Yeah.” He looked down at the water, frowning, and swallowed nervously, then said, “I think I need to get away from everyone.”

Asher glanced over at him. “Why?”

He chanced looking up. “It’s—dangerous.” Before Asher could question him further, the boat rocked _hard_ , with a loud thunk as if something had rammed into it. Stiles rose on his tiptoes to peer over the side, hands tense, expecting more mermaids. 

The boat rocked again, a hard knock from the port side. 

“Asher?” Ari called. She and Ripley emerged from the cabin on deck.

Stiles glanced at Asher, but he didn’t look jealous or surprised by the fact that the two of them had been alone together. 

“I don’t know what it is.” Asher ran a hand through his hair, brows furrowing.

Stiles cast his senses out and frowned. “Some kind of animal. Something scared it, but nothing is controlling it…I think.” He felt Asher reach out much like he had and pulled back automatically.

“Whale.” Asher ran to the port side. 

Stiles set his bag down and followed. When he leaned over the rail, his jaw dropped as he caught sight of the creature. 

It was mind-bogglingly huge, with several eyes creating a half moon shape on its head. It had extra fins, too, and when it moved its tail, it nearly tipped the boat over. Stiles thought it might’ve been a blue whale once upon a time. 

Asher sighed, putting his hand out.

“Soothing spell?”

He shook his head. “Just redirecting it.” He flicked his fingers.

Psychic magic. _Figures,_ Stiles thought, scowling.

“Ari, change course so we aren’t in its way. Stiles was right, something scared it.”

“You got it.”

“Ripley, you think you can give us a push?”

Stiles glanced at him; his arms were crossed, scowling until one of the chickens bobbed its way past him, when he cracked. 

“Fine,” he muttered. “I can _try._ It probably won’t work,” he added loftily. 

“Yes, well,” Asher huffed, “try anyway.” 

Stiles looked back at the whale, feeling the magic Asher was doing. It wasn’t usually the way to do things, but he wasn’t pushing, just observing, and Asher didn’t block him, so he must not have minded. 

Psychic magic always felt twisty and strange to Stiles, a labyrinth where his magic was built for blasting through obstacles. He could do it in the most basic sense, but inserting suggestions as Asher was doing was so far out of his reach.

Ripley grunted. Cold wind whipped over the deck, snapping the sails out and moving the boat forward quickly enough to pitch them all backward. 

Ari shouted, “ _Wooo!_ ” from the wheel and Ripley beamed, the light of victory clearing his sulky expression away. 

Asher grinned to himself. 

Lise and Wyatt came up to see why the boat was moving so quickly, alarmed and sleep rumpled. Wyatt’s hair was sticking up all over the place, his eyes huge and dark in his face as he blinked around. 

“Ripley did it,” Ari bragged when they asked. 

“That’s great! See, you’re amazing,” Wyatt said easily, grabbing Ripley in a swaying hug. “And we’re going so fast!” He yawned and turned, resting his head against Ripley’s shoulder. 

Stiles wondered how he’d made it so far being so trusting and affectionate, but he guessed it helped to have a werewolf and vampire looking after him. 

Lise wandered to Stiles and Asher, noticing the whale and letting out a squeal. “Awww. Bye!” She waved at it as it slowly veered away from them. “What?” she demanded when they stared at her. “They’re very smart. They might be able to understand.” She leaned over the rail to watch it go, smiling. 

Stiles looked down at the water, watching the ripples. He couldn’t tell if the whale understood, but he knew it was calmer; whatever it’d been fleeing from had been driven out of its mind by Asher’s redirection.

A shadow darted under the ship. 

Stiles straightened and bent over the rail, catching his breath as he reached out, sensing for mermaids or hostility. 

Asher clapped Lise on the shoulder and went over to Ripley, who was sitting at the other side of the boat with one of the chickens in his lap. 

“What was that?” she asked, leaning out even further, balancing herself against the rail. 

“We got attacked by mermaids a couple days ago,” Stiles said anxiously. “Maybe we should move away from the rail?”

She shook her head. “I don’t smell mermaids, and it doesn’t sound like the way they swim.” She lifted her legs up and down the way a mermaid might move their fins. She tilted further over the rail, ears elongating in a partial shift to hear better. 

Stiles reached out, figuring he’d take the punch to the nose if it kept her from going overboard. He’d just made contact with her shoulder when something launched out of the water. 

Stringy black hair flung water all over them, a long neck stretching out and snapping teeth into Lise’s other shoulder, then dragging her overboard. 

Stiles grabbed her arm and slammed into the railing, his breath going out of him as the weight of both Lise and the creature nearly ripped his shoulder from its socket. It only took a second to yank him over the side, too, his shin banging against the rail on the way down, bringing reflexive tears to his eyes right before they hit the water. 

The water was stunningly cold; Stiles’s shin throbbed as his muscles locked up. 

Lise’s arm had been torn from his grasp.

It took a moment for the thought to penetrate his frozen brain. When it did, he jerked and twisted, kicking his legs toward the sunlight above him. He gasped when he broke the surface, blinking water out of his eyes. He inhaled and ducked back under, kicking himself deeper. 

Lise was fighting the creature, but its teeth were still embedded in her shoulder and she couldn’t get any leverage. Her wild thrashing and kicking was just costing her breath and energy. 

Stiles swam toward her, preparing a spell.

Something silky brushed along his side, clingy and warm, and instead of forward, he began to sink.

A kelpie with a slick, deep green coat had pushed against his arm, dragging him deeper into the ocean.

Stiles jerked, but it felt like he’d been fused to the horse-like creature from wrist to shoulder. 

Its eyes were bright blue and somehow sinister, focused on him while it tried to drown him. 

He looked back, his lungs already burning, but he couldn’t see Lise from this angle. He felt woozy and slow; he needed air if he wanted to help her. He lifted the pale, numb fingers of his left hand, watching them drift slow and dreamy through the water, and flicked them.

The water heated rapidly, bubbles rising, and the kelpie’s skin went hot and burning against his arm before it exploded into wet chunks.

Stiles’s chest shuddered; he needed air and he didn’t think he would make it to the surface. Desperately, he threw a shield around himself, but it just locked the water in with him, useless. His shoulders jerked, his lungs feeling crushed. A stream of bubbles popped out of his mouth before he could help it. He pulled his hands together, cupped, and tried to form another shield, pushing the water out, drawing air in.

_Gills,_ he thought as his vision pulsed dangerously. _Like gills. Oxygen._

The shield bloomed around him, still with water, and he felt hopelessness dragging him down. Then, miraculously, the water began to drain. It was slow at first, but then Stiles’s head broke the surface; he sucked in greedy lungfuls of magically produced air, gasping and shuddering against the side of the shield. His whole body shook, his knees giving out beneath him, as the shield pulsed. He looked up, wiping water out of his eyes and sniffling as his nose ran. He flexed his hands at his sides, fingers stiff and numb, and turned a slow circle, trying to find Lise. He didn’t have time to catch his breath and calm down; she was drowning. 

The shield stayed where he’d put it, somehow suspended instead of sinking. He would have to examine the spell later, because he’d never done one like this before, but at the moment…

He spotted a cloud of blood that must’ve been Lise and the kelpie, closer to the surface than him, bubbles rising.

He couldn’t move _within_ the shield, but he couldn’t just leave her. His lungs ached at the idea of swimming again, and the raw burn on his right arm was no picnic either, but he didn’t have any other options. He made himself inhale and threw both of his arms out to break the shield. He was kicking before the water hit him, shooting up toward Lise.

She was still thrashing, though it looked more like drowning than fighting now.

Stiles took a chance and hurled a shield around her so she could get her breath back.

This left the kelpie without prey. It reared back, momentarily confused, before turning to Stiles, licking blood from its snout with a long, pointed tongue. It moved through the water gracefully, easily as if it had fins instead of four long, powerful legs ending in heavy hooves. 

Stiles threw both his hands out, fire sizzling out through the water, throwing steam and bubbles and colliding with the kelpie before it could reach him. He lunged at the shield Lise was in while it screamed, choking out water. 

“Thanks,” she rasped. She was still gagging out salt water, red-faced, but at least she was conscious. “Are we sinking?”

He shook his head, using the back of his hand to wipe water from his eyes; the shield shuttered as it passed water through it.

“What is it doing? How can we breathe?”

“It…it’s…” He put a hand on the shield. “It’s acting like…gills, I guess.” He wiped at his eyes again and pushed his hair off his face. “I don’t really…” He shuddered and looked up. “We’ll have to swim to the surface. Can you make it?”

Her shoulder was still bleeding heavily, though the water had washed most of it away. The skin under was torn and ragged, bloody and just raw enough to turn his stomach. 

“Yeah, I can make it.” She straightened and nodded, flexing her hands and neck like a boxer before a fight.

Stiles breathed deeply, caught her eye, and dropped the shield. They broke toward the surface in tandem, and even with one arm barely functional, Lise was pulling ahead. Stiles didn’t mind; this way he could focus on getting to the surface and not about whether she’d passed out. Sunlight was brighter the closer they got, warming the water, giving them a beacon to swim to. Stiles gave one, final, desperate kick and broke the surface, gasping and heaving for breath, flailing to stay above the shoving waves.

Beside him, Lise cursed in one long, unending stream of temper, but at least she was conscious to do it.

“You’re alive!” 

Stiles looked up. The ship was nearing them—apparently the kelpies had dragged them further than he thought—and Ari was standing at the bow, hands on her hips, while Lydia, Asher, and Wyatt peered over the rail. “Could we get a hand?”

Lise’s hand clamped like an ice cold vise around Stiles’s wrist, making him bob briefly under the surface. “Don’t look. Swim to the boat.”

He looked anyway. 

Three kelpies had followed them to the surface, their manes like ink in the water. They moved steadily toward them, eyes locked on their prizes. 

Stiles lunged forward, swimming with more speed than finesse, his frantic kicking and paddling sending the water into disarray. 

Lise was right beside him, leaving a trail of blood as her wounded arm tore open again and again.

Clingy hot skin brushed Stiles’s burned arm, stringy black hair spreading around him like a net. He sucked in a breath and threw his hands up, but before he could cast, a scream shattered the air.

It seemed to cut across the sea, a raw command, furious and all consuming, battering his ear drums. 

The kelpies keened, low and sorrowful, and withdrew into the sea, like wolves submitting to a stronger animal. 

Lydia stopped screaming and looked down at them. “Are you okay?” 

Stiles could only nod, gaping. 

“Shut your mouth, we need the water to sail on.”

Once they were pulled back on board, Rosalva ushered Lise off to be treated after making sure Stiles was in one piece. Stiles sat on the deck, dripping. He turned his face up at Lydia and managed a grin. “That was one hell of a scream.”

She smiled. “Thank you.”

“No, thank _you_. How’d you know that would work?”

“Most kelpies react to the scream. Not sure why.” She nudged him. “Come on, let’s get you in some dry clothes.”

He grimaced. “All my clothes are filthy. I was going to ask if there’s a bucket I can use to wash them, Dad and I got some soap.” 

She grinned. “Yeah, we’ve got a laundry bucket. I’m sure someone’s got something you can borrow while you wash your stuff.”

“Boyd?”

She nodded. “He won’t mind.” She held her hand out for his.

“Where is Boyd, by the way?” he asked while they made their way to the stairs. 

She squeezed his fingers. “Engine room. He’s trying to find ghosts. He likes to check for everyone, just in case anything…changes.” 

“Ah.”

Lydia helped him grab a t-shirt and pants from Boyd’s things, then grabbed the laundry bucket from the bathroom and showed him her method for clothes washing. 

Stiles gained a new respect for washing machines and Lydia got to laugh at him struggling to scrub blood stains out of his shirts.

John came up while they were cleaning Stiles’s last pair of jeans, groggy and unaware of the drama he’d missed. “Sleeping in that pitch black room is screwing up my whole sleep schedule,” he muttered, twisting gently left and right to stretch his back.

“We can probably put a window in that room. Ari is pretty good at welding them together without breaking the glass now,” Lydia added. 

John smiled at her. “No, that’s not necessary. I’m gonna go see if Alden needs help with breakfast.”

“Dad’s got a crush on Alden,” Stiles reported, and laughed when John kicked his leg before stomping off and muttering to himself.

Lydia smiled as he went and despite the ten years, she still looked just the same. 

Stiles concentrated on wringing his jeans out, but he just couldn’t let it go. “I’m sorry,” he blurted. 

“For what?” She lifted a brow at him, daring him to say something she didn’t like. 

It made him smile, but he still had to say it. “For not helping you guys before. I wish I could have.”

Lydia shook her head. “Circumstances. If we’d have been in Beacon Hills, you’d have killed yourself trying to shield all of us.” She inhaled, like she was steadying herself. “This way, you’re alive, too. I knew you were,” she added with a small smirk. “We’ve been looking for everyone but even before Boyd figured out how to summon ghosts, I knew.” 

Stiles scoffed. “Lydia Martin, being sentimental?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Logical,” she said primly. “I knew you were stronger than those witches in San Francisco. Of course you survived.” 

He snickered, then looked at his damp clothes. At least they were clean. 

Lydia stood. “Come on, we usually hang them to dry by the stern. I’ll show you.”

There was a laundry line strung over the stern and a bucket of clamps, binder clips, and clothes pins that Lydia helped him use. The wind pulled at them, tossing Lydia’s hair around her face while she fought with a pair of ripped jeans. She looked pale and glowing in the brilliant sunshine, weary and thoughtful in a way she hadn’t been at twenty-one; her edges had roughened with time, sharp as ever but jagged now instead of a polished diamond. 

“Stop staring,” she ordered, but she was smiling as she said it.

“Did you guys have a lot of trouble?”

She finished with a shirt and turned to him. “Yeah. When we ran into anyone, they were usually aggressive. We found some that were okay and helped us fight, but mostly people were assholes.” She noticed his expression. “What, you think we didn’t have to get bloody?”

“It’s not that. I just wish you didn’t have to.”

She nodded slowly. “It was good. I mean, it was terrible, but it was good, too. We earned our survival. We pulled our weight and we learned how to take care of ourselves and anyone who needed us.”

Stiles rubbed his face. “That makes sense.” He smelled food on the wind and pressed a hand to his stomach. “You think breakfast is ready?”

She eyed him. “Yes. Don’t change the subject.”

“I’m not. I’m just…trying to get to know you guys again.” He turned his arm so he could see the burn from the kelpie; it was red but not too bad, and probably didn’t even require bandages. “Because up until Mad Hollow, you guys were dead in my head. I hoped, maybe, but…so I have to reconcile this image of you with the one I remember. To me it was just weeks ago, or maybe a couple months.” He waved his hands. “Keeping track is hard. It was _recent_ , is all I’m saying.” He winced, scrubbing his face. “So when you talk about survival, I get nervous and want to help, but it’s obviously _way_ too late. Um, so. Sorry if I act weird. I’m working on it.”

She brushed her hair back. “Alright. Remember that we were looking for you guys, _hoping_ you were alive, pretty sure you were, but unable to find you.” She smiled at him. “We’ve got time to get used to it.”

“Heh, yeah.”

They went to get breakfast together; Wyatt, John, and Alden had set out two long tables with food that everyone was picking from. Lise had a towel wrapped and tucked around her like a dress, lumpy bandages bunched on her shoulder, teasing Jamel about the pillow crease he had on his cheek. 

Ari, Ripley, and Asher stood near the head of the table, looking worried; Asher caught sight of Stiles and beckoned him.

“Yeah?”

“We were talking about the shields and why they didn’t help you guys with the kelpies.” 

Stiles looked at Lise. “She was leaning out of them when the kelpie grabbed her.”

Ari huffed. “Perfect. Loop holes to magic.”

Asher set a hand on her shoulder, but she just shrugged him off irritably. 

“I’m going to talk to Nadine,” she muttered and stalked away. 

Stiles rubbed his forehead, fighting a headache, and went to the rail. He needed to let the group thin out a bit before getting food, or his head might explode. He leaned against the rail and prodded at the shields. Layering had _seemed_ like a good idea, but it’d immediately been worked around by demonic ocean horses. 

He leaned his head on his hands and laughed helplessly. A soft splash had him looking up, ready for another attack. He saw his reflection in the undisturbed water, moving constantly in the way of living water. The image wavered and his skin turned icy white, lips blue, eyes shut. Ice spread around the image, solidifying; permanent. 

Stiles thrust a hand out.

Water sprayed in every direction as he obliterated the image. A blue creature with six eyes and two legs flipped a webbed tail at him and swam away. 

He stared into the water, but he could barely make out his reflection this time. It had been a fabrication of whatever that creature was from the start, not just the frozen image of himself. 

“Hey!” Ari whistled. “Stilinskis!”

He rolled his eyes and turned. “Who told you our last name?”

“Your dad. We have to set sail again.” 

John approached, holding a bowl of snap peas. “Do you have a destination in mind?”

“No,” Ripley said, “but if we sit still too long, we might run into trouble.”

Ari cocked her hip. “Plus, don’t you want us to get you as close as possible to that queen person?’

Stiles felt eyes on him and looked up to see Lydia studying him. He looked away hastily. 

“Yes, please,” John said, casting Stiles a strange look.

He hadn’t told Boyd and Lydia that he and John weren’t staying on the boat.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy <3

Stiles tried to avoid the confrontation he could feel brewing like a storm, but the ship was only so big, and everyone else knew their jobs and didn’t really need help, so he only made it a day and a half before Lydia and Boyd cornered him. He’d been using a rag to clean dust and grime from the floor, desperate to be busy, and nearly managed to hide in the kitchen. 

Lydia stomped down on the rag, nearly crushing his fingers and pinning the rag in place. 

Stiles looked up, smiling weakly. “Hey guys. I’m kinda busy, trying to pull my weight, so…”

“Where did you ask Ari to take you?” Lydia demanded. “You’re safe here, so where are you going?”

He sat back on his heels, relinquishing the rag. He looked up at Boyd for help, but his expression was impassive, arms crossed. “I just have to get to the Queen of the South.”

“ _Why?_ ” Lydia pressed. 

“It doesn’t matter. She has a settlement in the south, and we have to get there.” He stood, brushing dirt from his knees. “Excuse me.”

They didn't move. “Let us help you,” Boyd said. “That witch won’t be able to find you here.”

He shook his head. “It’s not that. Please, can I just-” 

Lydia slapped her palm on the wall, blocking him in. “No. We just found you, you aren’t going to get yourself killed now.”

“You need to tell us things, so we can help,” Boyd murmured. 

Stiles shook his head. “There’s nothing to tell.”

Lydia’s hand clenched on the wall, knuckles standing out white under the skin.

Stiles could see the fury bubbling over, and wanted to laugh. Here was Lydia Martin, dressed in a patched blue sweater and jeans so old they were nearly white, wearing tough hiking boots, furious at not being given information she wanted. Some things hadn’t changed, he guessed. 

She snarled and dropped her hand, stepping aside.

Stiles waited a moment, looking at both of them before going to the top deck. 

Rosalva, Wyatt, and Alden were setting up a card game, chattering about bets that obviously would be paid with chores or food or supplies, since money meant nothing. 

Stiles looked around and sure enough, Ripley, Ari, and Asher were on the platform by the wheel, talking in the shadow of the sails. 

Lise, Nadine, and Jamel were passing out food—white fish and salads made from veggies that Asher had grown—weaving between groups and shoving plates at everyone.

John took a look at the card game and joined in, apparently too bored to resist. 

Stiles moved away from the stairs and crossed his arms. The sky was bright with afternoon sun and the temperature had spiked again, though the water was calm around them. He closed his eyes for a moment, just listening to the chatter of the crew, the waves. He even heard the distant shriek of some bird trying to sing. The gentle rocking of the boat was soothing and he soon felt tension going out of his shoulders. He probably wasn’t being fair, not telling them. But he needed them _safe_. 

Lydia and Boyd had joined the card game when he opened his eyes again. Lydia was to John’s left, Boyd to his right, making conversation and leaning into him as they talked. If Stiles didn’t focus on the others, it would almost look like the monthly dinners they would all have at John’s house, easy and familiar, safe, comfortable.

Stiles backed up and sat on the stairs leading up to the platform. Watching them reminded him of the Hales, the way they’d eaten together around fires. He cast his senses out and shuddered; he could feel them, could almost _see_ them, a ghostly image flickering in front of him of Laura pulling Derek up a muddy hill. He blinked and it was gone. He frowned at his knees, annoyed. Now he was imagining things. Why could he sense them so well, but not any of the others? He could feel Boyd and Lydia again, strong connections that had exploded back into existence as if they’d never been gone, but no one else. Why? If they were alive, like Boyd thought they were, why couldn’t he feel them? Maybe he wasn’t reaching far enough? 

With the Hales, he had to concentrate _not_ to feel them, but maybe it had more to do with time than distance? He’d been with the Hales more recently than he’d been with his friends. He stretched out further, past the ship and the fog trying to roll over them, out and out and bumped something—cold.

He gasped as the witch’s mind flooded his—she’d been reaching for his mind already. She knew about Ari through reputation and had mostly been ignoring her until now…now that she knew a little about Asher—Stiles hurled shields and distractions up when he felt her pressing in, images of smoke and clouds, but she was more skilled at psychic magic than him and pierced the pathetic veils like a knife. She _wanted_ Asher, she wanted Stiles, both of their magic. She hungered for it.

Stiles scattered the tracking magic, panicked, but despite her invasion, she still couldn’t find him or keep him from sensing her thoughts in return.

The scattered tracking pissed her off; water confused her magic, it wasn’t like ice, which she understood. Water was…fluid and disorienting. Unfortunately, Stiles’s mind was all fire: brightly lit and bare, burning hot—she knew she wanted his power and now she wanted Asher’s, too. Both of them were enticing to her, and she wanted to consume them, like desserts on a tray. 

Stiles’s revulsion yanked him back, flinging her out finally and freeing him from her mental grasp. He flicked his fingers, trying out psychic shields he’d never attempted before. It seemed she couldn’t get in without him reaching out first so far, so at least he had that going for him. Still, the invasion was horrific, feeling her desire to consume and use his magic—and now Asher’s—in his own head. It felt…dirty. 

“Hey.” Asher sat beside him and offered him a plate.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, accepting it. He picked at the fish, flicking glances at him every few seconds.

Asher let out a long breath, staring across the ship at Ripley and Ari. “My mom was part of the collective.”

Stiles bobbed his head. “That makes a lot of sense. You pick up magic quickly.” 

He laughed dryly. “I was basically raised in a library, that’s all. I read a lot to pass the time.” His face fell into serious lines then, and he turned to Stiles. “What’s wrong? You seem upset.”

Stiles ate some lettuce and onions to buy some time. What could he say? There were so _many_ things wrong right now and he couldn’t fix any of them. “When my dad and I first woke up,” he said at last, “we traveled with some people, but we eventually had to split up.” He stared at his plate. “I can still sense them, though. Even from afar.”

Asher frowned, flicking a piece of lint from his pants. “That’s not too terribly unusual.” He had a smudgy scar on his neck, like a faded burn.

“I only knew them for a short while, and I’ve known Boyd and Lydia my whole life, but I couldn’t sense them until I found them again. Why should I be able to sense those…but not…?”

Asher’s mouth twisted. “Yeah, distance usually only allows for the strongest of bonds.” He rubbed his fingers against his left knee. “Were they witches? Maybe they’re reaching for you back?”

He shook his head. “Werewolves, a small pack.”

Asher’s face cleared, to Stiles’s surprise. “That’ll be it, then. Their pack bonds and your magical ones tethered you together strongly enough to keep the bonds clear even at a distance. It’s normal,” he added. 

Stiles looked down, feeling even guiltier. He should tell him about Della, how she wanted to steal his magic, but he couldn’t form the words. 

Asher stood. “Enjoy your food.” He brushed his hands against his pants before walking over to Ripley and Ari. 

Stiles rubbed the back of his hand against his eye and kept eating; he was tired, just tired no matter how much sleep he seemed to get and it was starting to wear on him. 

He helped Wyatt and Alden take the dishes down to the galley when he finished eating, hoping some movement would help him wake up a little, clear the fog from his head. 

“Did you have magic before the bombs?” Wyatt asked, scrubbing a plate with a rough gray rag. 

“Oh—yeah, I’ve always been a witch.”

He nodded. “That’s cool, at least you knew how to, you know, use your powers afterward.” He shrugged and set the clean plate on a drying rack, grabbed another dirty one. “A lotta people couldn’t, even after surviving the bombs, and they died.” He grimaced. 

“Wyatt,” Alden said quietly. “Some people don’t like to talk about that.”

Stiles shrugged. “I wasn’t awake during the bombs anyway.” But he could see that Alden didn’t want to talk about it, so he passed Wyatt another plate and asked, “What card game were you guys playing?”

“Bullshit,” he chirped. “Your dad is really good at it.”

“Yes, he is.” Stiles snickered when Alden shook his head, obviously catching his meaning. “Don’t play poker with him, trust me.” 

“I read a book about a mind reader who used his telepathic powers to win lots of stuff playing poker,” Wyatt said. “Then he met this girl, I think they called her a neutral in the book, and he lost _bad_ because her power was to make other people’s powers not work.”

“That’s cool.” Stiles glanced at Alden, who shrugged. 

“There’s not much to do besides read and play cards, when there’s no work left to be done.” Wyatt finished the last two plates with a flourish. “So I read and sometimes Jamel and I paint. It’s better than moping around doing nothing,” he added when Alden sighed. 

“Yeah, I know.”

Stiles thought they were lucky to have any downtime to choose between hobbies or moping, but didn’t say it. The ship was like its own world, suffering the same as the rest of the world, but somehow thriving at the same time.

“I mean, it’s not like we have nothing to do _all_ the time. Remember the squid?” He shuddered. 

“We were attacked by a giant squid a couple weeks ago,” Alden explained. 

“ _Giant_ doesn’t cover it,” Wyatt scoffed. “This squid was bigger than a skyscraper. And it decided to wrap its huge tentacle around the boat, and it had suckers as big as me.” 

“That’s pretty big.” Stiles looked toward the window.

“The worst part was that it didn’t even _know_ it had us. We were so small compared to it that it was like a minnow trying to get a whale shark’s attention and it would _not let go._ Asher had to try burning it.”

Stiles grimaced, but Wyatt was already going on: “It didn’t work, so Ari did it, and the squid definitely noticed that. Cleaning that up took forever, too, it inked all over the ship.” He shuddered. 

“I bet.”

Wyatt eyed him, like he was trying to make sure he wasn’t being patronized, then nodded and apparently decided to change the subject. “Asher said he’s going to make potions so the rest of us can carry magic with us, are you going to help him?”

Wyatt’s speech patterns reminded Stiles alternately of a little kid and someone world-weary; he guessed that was what happened to a child raised in the apocalypse. “If he asks, I can, but we would need materials—plants, crystals, rocks…”

“He has some of those.” Wyatt frowned thoughtfully. “Although he did say he was running low. We’ll just have to stop soon.” He pointed at a blue tub under the table. “He has jars, a pestle and mortar, and a knife he only uses with plants, and sometimes I get to help even though I can’t do magic.”

Stiles looked at the tub longingly; tools were just ornate trappings and weren’t _necessary_ to potion work, but after so many years of using the same tools, they felt like a vital part of the ritual anyway. He missed his tools, his pestle and mortar, his athame, his brewing pot—cauldrons were outdated, although he wondered if they would make a comeback now that people wouldn’t be able to go buy pots—and the tools Claudia had left to him especially. 

Wyatt smiled sympathetically. “We can start finding you some tools, too. Some people find witchy stuff and trade it at Mad Hollow. Asher can usually find stuff, too, when we go scouting in other places. He said that he can sense stuff that has a lot of magic in it or around it.” 

“They’re called magic hums. It’s a…sensation magical items give off. Some plants give them off, too, if they’re good for potions.” Stiles pushed at Wyatt’s aura. “You give one off, too,” he added with a smile.

Wyatt’s brows drew down. “That’s cool. What does it feel like? Or is it a sound?”

“It’s both, kind of. Like different pitched hums that I can hear, like normal, but I can also feel it in my chest.” He thought for a second, then brought his magic to the surface, letting it buzz along his skin like an armor. The hum of it filled the kitchen, lifting Wyatt’s light hair slightly. 

He pressed a fist to his chest, wide eyed. “Is that what it feels like to you?”

Stiles nodded, smiling to himself.

“That’s cool. Asher’s never done that before, is it a spell you made up?”

“Yeah. My friends…” He jerked his shoulders. “When I was telling them about my magic, I needed a way to show them magic without hurting them or freaking them out, so I did that.” He let the magic settle again, hidden beneath his skin.

“Huh. Did they take it well?”

“Mmm, mostly.” 

Wyatt eyed him, then nodded. “I’m gonna go back to the game, Boyd said he’d play my turn a couple times so I could help with the dishes.” He waved and clattered into the hall.

“He’s our resident optimist,” Alden said quietly. “A lot of people think it’s naivety, but he just doesn’t like silence or letting everything weigh him down.” He quirked a smile. “Ari calls him Sunshine.” 

Stiles smiled back and tried not to think of Scott, the optimist of their group and how easily he’d get along with Wyatt. How he’d tease Stiles for being awkward around him.

John was drinking from a metal water bottle near the cabin when Stiles returned to the top deck, listening as Boyd spoke to him seriously. They were the same height, though John wasn’t as broad; their stances were casual but John looked a little tense, worse the longer Boyd spoke.

“Hey,” Ari called out. “Everyone brace. There’s another boat.”

Stiles swiveled to look; everyone else sprang into action: Boyd caught John’s shoulder, speaking urgently, while Rosalva, Lydia, and Nadine jumped up from the card table and Lise started pulling weapons out of hidden spots around the deck. 

Jamel stopped next to Stiles. “Everyone who can’t use their powers to fight needs to go below decks!” he called. “That includes you, Lise, your shoulder is still messed up.” 

She whipped around, a gun and knife in hand. “I’m the best fighter!” she protested. 

“You haven’t seen Stiles in a fight yet,” he said with a snicker. “But seriously, your shoulder could trip you up.”

“We don’t even know if they’re hostile yet,” she pointed out, irritated. 

“Then we don’t know if we even need your help.”

Ari stood up on the stairs to the platform. “Anyone injured or unable to fight, please go below decks. Boyd, Lydia, Nadine, Lise, Rosalva. Most of your powers and skills are not combat-oriented, and we aren’t dumb, so we utilize everyone’s talents when we can. _Now,_ ” she added sharply.

John went with Boyd and Lydia, shrugging at Stiles on his way past.

The boat was small, approaching from the port side, with no sails or oars in sight, despite the fact that it was moving fairly quickly; maybe it had an engine? What was it running on?

Stiles looked around. “Maybe we can camouflage the ship?”

“Probably too late now,” Ari observed. 

Ripley looked around, then climbed one of the masts like a squirrel. He spread his wings and put his arms out to balance himself; the wind picked up, harsh and cold, and a thick fog began rolling in.

Asher grinned. “He’s getting better.”

Ari jostled him with her elbow, smirking. 

“It’s just a little boat,” Jamel observed. “Maybe it’s nothing.”

“They’re coming straight at us and haven’t changed course,” Ari said, putting her hands on her hips. “They want something or they want to start something.”

The fog hovered heavily around the ship, chilling the air and dulling the late afternoon sunlight.

Stiles cast his senses, picking at the little boat coming for them. He felt a kinetic and a vampire on board, an energy void that he thought was an incubus or succubus of some kind. Their emotions felt muted, but he could sense yearning.

“What’re they doing?” Asher murmured. He crossed to the rail, waving a hand to clear a bit of the fog so he could see. 

Stiles glanced at Jamel, but he was hooking a knife in his belt, not watching.

Wyatt said, “Maybe they need help.” 

Alden shook his head, arms crossed, and kept watching the boat creeping toward them with narrowed eyes. 

“The kinetic is propelling it,” Stiles blurted as he realized it himself. 

Wyatt grimaced. “That doesn’t mean-”

“ _Shit,_ ” Ari snarled. “Starboard side,” she snapped, “now!”

They swung around just as another ship, nearly as big as their own, cut through the fog on the other side of them. 

“Ripley!” Asher shouted. 

Stiles looked up automatically. 

Something dark flew at Ripley, knocking him off the mast. The two spiraled over the edge and into the water with a huge splash, making Asher yelp.

Asher snarled and threw his hands up; a frigid wind swept the fog away though it didn’t so much as twitch the sails. 

The other ship was close enough to touch; it was made of wood, like an old fashioned pirate ship and populated with vampires, succubi, incubi, and kinetics, radiating aggression and hunger. 

Stiles glowered and brought both hands to his chest, then thrust them out, palms first. 

The boat tipped dangerously as the spell crackled over it, water gurgling around them, and Stiles thought for sure it would capsize, and save them all a bit of trouble. 

Several people ran to the side and threw their hands out; a burst of power pushed them back down.

“Whoa-” Jamel yelped. 

Stiles turned; the smaller boat’s occupants had boarded them while they’d focused on the bigger one.

Jamel and the vampire were already fighting, hissing, moving almost too fast for him to see. 

The succubus climbed aboard and immediately locked on Alden, pulling a pair of jagged knives from her belt. 

The ship rocked as others from the starboard side invaded; Ari started swearing, her voice deepening in pitch strangely. 

A kinetic lunged in front of Stiles, wielding a sharpened piece of metal stuck in a strange looking piece of rubber made into a grip. He was older than Stiles, with scars and scratches on his jaw and neck, smaller than Wyatt’s but shiny pink and eye catching. 

Stiles thrust his hand out, knocking him off his feet. 

A vampire jumped over her sprawled comrade and stalked toward Stiles, fangs bared, eyes glowing crimson. 

Stiles felt her hypnotism prickle at him, but it was faint and weak, faltering against the shields he’d put up. He scoffed and cut his hand across the air in front of him.

Red lines slashed across her chest, knocking her back several steps. She hissed and lunged at him, teeth snapping.

Stiles threw his left hand out, then down, slamming her flat to the deck.

Wyatt stalked past Stiles, his stride for once stiff and confident; he lifted his chin and arched his arm back, then whipped it forward. 

The vampire and kinetic skidded along the deck and slammed into the rail. 

Stiles turned to see if Jamel needed help and found himself in the arms of a succubus. He reared back, but she had a powerful grip, arms locked around his middle. 

“Hey, little witch,” she purred, grabbing his hair in a fist and yanking his head down. Her mouth smashed against his hard, teeth pressing through lips.

Stiles shoved at her shoulders, but he was already getting weak, legs trembling, arms like wet noodles. He collapsed. 

Stiles woke abruptly as he was being dragged through a door. He shot all of his limbs out on instinct to keep himself from being locked in, but his fingers slipped right off the doorframe, and whoever was carrying him just grunted and tossed him into the room, then slammed the door, plunging him into the dark. He’d landed on the hard floor, hip and shoulder throbbing. His _head_ was hurting, too, a deep throb at the very top of his skull. He pressed his palms into his eyes, hoping to push the headache away by pressure alone. No luck. He was pretty sure the succubus had drained some of his life force, weakening him until he’d passed out, then had just taken his unconscious ass to her boat. 

He rolled onto his hands and knees. The room was pitch black, damp and cold; his palms were pressed against a rough wooden floor, and, when he moved, he could hear something dripping steadily. He shuffled forward on his hands and knees toward where he thought he’d been tossed from—until he smashed his face into something hard. 

“ _Fuck!_ ” He reared back, hands flying to his nose. Blood gushed thick and hot between his fingers. Now his face and head were throbbing, tears stinging his eyes reflexively, and it felt like moving would make his head detach from his body. He tipped his chin down, letting the blood run down his face rather than his throat, and reached out to touch whatever he’d run into; it felt like a support beam. He breathed through the pain until it was manageable, then carefully pulled himself to his feet. He groaned and put his other hand to his temple, hoping it only _felt_ like his skull was splitting in two. “Okay,” he breathed. “Okay, you’re okay.”

He didn’t even know why he was talking except it gave him something to focus on besides the pain in his head and the blood still trickling down his face. 

He felt around the support beam, but it wasn’t much help; just a foot wide and solid wood. He swallowed and carefully stepped away from it, hands outstretched to keep from running into anything else. It was too dark, but he was afraid to make a light; his head was splitting and since his life force had been drained, he’d need to save his energy for fighting his way out. 

Something hard and solid rapped across his shins, sent him sprawling forward. His palms slammed into something higher than the floor. 

He bit his tongue as his shins stung with bright, sharp pain. All he could do for a moment was hold still, breathing hard through the agony. 

Slight movement made his shins shriek with pain, so he waited it out, breathing carefully. Once he could move, he felt at what’d attacked him; he’d walked into a low coffee table. 

Grumbling, he circled his fingers and made a light.

There were two support beams in the small room and the coffee table was two feet from the door. Someone was an asshole decorator. 

He kicked the table out of the way and hobbled to the door; he was annoyed but unsurprised to find it locked from the outside.

“Fuck it,” he muttered. He threw his hands up, letting the light die, and thrust his palms forward. 

The blast blew the entire wall open, wood shards flying through the air. 

Stiles waited until it settled to step over the mess, trembling as his energy waned.

A vampire stood in the hall, gaping, knife held limp at her side. 

Stiles swept a hand at her and shuddered as she exploded into bloody chunks, energy surging through him. She’d been blocking a ladder, which Stiles gratefully used to get to the next deck. 

Cold ocean air soothed his throbbing face as he emerged on the top deck. He clambered up and off the ladder, wiping blood from his upper lip.

There were people scattered over the deck, milling around, stacking supplies; they all seemed to notice him at once and froze. The succubus who’d drained him licked her lips and took a step toward him, her eyes heavy lidded and hungry. 

Stiles flexed his fingers; if he did a blasting spell at her, it would probably hit at least two of the others. Knocking them back wasn’t an option now that he was on their ship, alone, though he did feel a little bad for killing them. 

A shadow crossed the ship, circling closer. Ari drifted down as delicately as fluttering ash, touching down gently next to the port side. “Give me back my witches.”

A vampire scoffed and hurled a knife at her.

Stiles flinched, preparing to fire a spell, but Ari stepped out of the way at the last second. 

She set her hand on the wooden rail and lowered her wings, letting them drag along the deck. The wood cracked and began smoldering; beneath her boots, the deck began to smoke and sizzle. 

An incubus ran at her, shoulders down like a football player going for a tackle. 

She pursed her lips and blew at him. 

The fire hit him in the chest and spread rapidly. He screamed, batting at the flames and backpedaling. 

The fire on the rail grew as it devoured the wood, blazing along the edges of the boat. 

A hand caught Stiles’s arm. “Let’s go.”

He looked at Asher in surprise. “Were you down there, too?”

He nodded grimly. “You blew open my cell, so I forgive you for not noticing. We have to _go._ ”

“We have time, and she might need help.”

“No, she doesn’t, and no, we don’t.” He pulled until Stiles stumbled along with him to the starboard side. He waved a hand at the flames, then cursed when they only flickered. He tried both hands. Nothing.

Stiles wiped his still-dripping nose and brought his hands together in front of him.

The flames parted just enough for them to get through. They climbed up and jumped overboard together. 

Stiles’s head ached as he broke the surface, but he didn’t have time for that: Asher was swimming away, frantic, and he had to follow or be left behind. He followed. 

The dying evening sun suddenly got brighter as they swam; Stiles looked back to see the wooden ship in flames top to bottom, blazing bright against the sunset. 

Asher let out a little breath. “Damn.”

A shadow moved over them.

“Ripley!” His voice was almost choked with relief. “I thought you’d—I saw you get tackled-”

Ripley held his hands out.

“There’s no way you can carry us both. Just take Asher,” Stiles said through his teeth. 

Asher shook his head. “Stiles is hurt, he had blood all over him-”

“Oh my god,” Ripley muttered, and wheeled away. 

Stiles looked at Asher, surprised. “I guess we’re swimming.”

“I-” he began, and yelped when Ripley suddenly dove into the water. 

It didn’t last long; he hooked an arm around Stiles and one around Asher, then shot into the air. They didn’t go very high, and he was breathing hard, working to keep them airborne, but it was still faster than swimming. 

Stiles’s head gave a nasty throb and he squeezed his eyes shut, hoping he didn’t puke.

They dropped onto the boat sooner than Stiles was expecting, collapsing straight to the floor. Ripley also crumpled, his damp wings spread heavily over them. 

Stiles laid his cheek against the metal deck, shivering, and looked over at Ripley. “How do the wings work?”

He blinked. “What?”

“The wings.” He gestured at them.

He was obviously confused, but he said, “It’s like a werewolf’s partial shift.”

Stiles nodded, satisfied, and closed his eyes. 

After a moment, Ripley sat up and pulled his wings in, then murmured something to Asher. 

Stiles figured he should peel himself off the floor, too, and assess the damage he’d done to himself. He groaned as he pushed up into sitting position, wincing as his throbbing shins bumped the floor.

Ari returned as they were getting to their feet, eyes glazed, covered in ash and soot. Her eyes had a strange, inhuman glow to them when she looked at Asher and Stiles, teeth just a little too sharp in her mouth when she asked, “You guys okay?”

Stiles nodded quickly. “Uh-huh. Thanks.” He turned away, assuming Ari and Asher would want a moment alone together. His gaze caught on the burning ship and he froze, stomach clenching. His head throbbed to remind him of what the succubus had stolen.

It would be easier to want to save people, he thought grumpily, if people weren’t such garbage.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know there's a ton of oc's in this so it's not as much fun to read as straight-sterek, but I had so much fun writing this adventure (and the next) that I only feel a _little_ bad about it. I hope someone is enjoying the adventure as much as I did. <3
> 
> **I forgot to put this warning but this chapter has a lot more horror and uhhhh g...o...re???? I think?? Than usual**

Stiles watched the sun rise while he thought about the Hales. It was hard not to when he could sense every time one of them got scared or excited, or when they were distressed or arguing. The fear was always the worst, clutching at his heart like it was his own, terrified this would be the time he felt the connection tremble and shatter with death. They had so far managed, but how long would that last?

He rubbed his forehead, laughing at himself. They’d survived ten years without his help; his ego was overinflated if he thought they needed it now. What was really worrying him, he knew, was if Della would decide to go after them if she couldn’t find _him._ She had no way of tracking them like she did with Stiles, but they had no way of hiding from seeking magic either. 

He dropped his hand, gaze going distant. He had to do something about her. He knew his official stance was get the hell out of the way and keep the people he cared about safe, but inside, privately, he knew better. 

He’d been in her head, he’d seen her systematic plan for take over. Was he really going to stand by, hide, while she killed everyone else? He had too much of John in him for that, even pretending otherwise. Plus, what kind of life would that be anyway? Hiding until he died? He’d rather go down fighting, but that didn’t mean he had to be stupid about it.

Della was powerful and smart, but so were a lot of people, and she was just one witch. 

A blanket settled over his shoulders, making him jump. “Oh,” he exhaled when he saw Boyd, “thanks. Morning.”

“Morning. Here, do you want some of this?” He held out a steaming mug with a faded seahorse on the side. “It isn’t great and it _certainly_ isn’t coffee, but Asher is experimenting, trying to make tea.”

Stiles snorted and took the tea. “Thanks,” he said again. They sat in silence for a while, so Stiles took the time to examine Boyd; it was so strange how much older he was than Stiles, how different and similar he was to the boy he once was. He had scars now, one near his left eye, some on his arms, and he looked bone-deep tired. Stiles made himself sip the tea. It wasn’t great, but it wasn’t terrible either, flavored almost like mint. He smiled against the side of the mug. Being on the boat was so surreal. 

Boyd broke the silence. “Are you worried about the people you and John were traveling with?”

Stiles lowered his head. “Yeah,” he admitted. “A lot.”

Boyd grinned. “You did have a habit of picking up strays.”

Stiles pressed the mug against his forehead. “I hurt them.” He felt Boyd look at him and swallowed the guilt. “They protected us—they were the ones who woke us up—and they, um, they wanted my help—my magic to make a garden and…” He jerked his shoulders and looked away. “So I lied to them and said I could do that, even though I’ve never been able to grow plants. And when we ran into that witch, I thought they’d be safer without me anyway, so I told them we’d only stayed with them for protection.” Which was only _half_ true.

Boyd didn’t condone or condemn his actions. He just said, “We’ve all done things to survive.”

Stiles nodded, swallowing hard, and fell silent again. He sipped the tea and tried to make himself relax. 

Clouds were gathering in the sky, blocking out the rising sun and casting the day in grayscale. They were dark and heavy, hinting at rain, though Stiles wouldn’t be surprised if they cleared away to nothing or dropped a foot of snow on them. The insane weather, at least, was still the same on the ship. 

Stiles finished the tea and ran a finger over the bridge of his nose; he had two black eyes from ramming into the support beams, and his shins were badly bruised, but Rosalva didn’t think he’d broken anything. 

Something knocked against the ship. 

Stiles looked at Boyd, brows raised, as something knocked on the other side. They were muted thumps and knocks, like they were bumping into driftwood. 

Stiles scrambled up the stairs to the platform to peer over the rail, Boyd at his side. 

Jamel checked the wheel, then joined them. “What the…”

Debris cluttered the water, clogging their way with chunks of wood, floating crates, clothes, rope. The wreckage of a boat, Stiles guessed, or maybe two. The ropes were tangled with sea weed and vegetation of some kind that he couldn’t identify, creating a net that was catching in the grooved scratches in their hull. He saw something pale float by under a piece of sail canvas and felt a chill, but didn’t know why. 

“Bodies,” Boyd murmured. 

Stiles looked at him, but his gaze was on something just above the water, his face tense. When Stiles tried to follow his gaze, he couldn’t connect it to anything. He looked down at the water again and flinched when he saw a body tangled in rope, face down. Ghosts. Boyd was looking at ghosts. 

Nadine joined them at the hull. “Oh, god. We’re going to have to, um, move…them. It. Everything.”

“Oh my _god._ ” 

They turned to see Lise, still in pajamas, looking over the rail. She pulled her shirt up over her nose, face twisting.

“Wyatt!” Nadine called. “Get the poles, we have some…debris.” She grimaced and backed away from the rail. 

Wyatt grabbed a pile of pool poles, the kind with little hooks on the end rather than nets, and passed them out. 

Stiles curled his hand around the metal and felt dizzy horror wash over him. 

Beside him, Jamel swallowed audibly and slid the pole over the rail. 

Stiles looked, following with his gaze as Jamel, Lise, and Wyatt began prodding debris out of the way. 

Jamel’s pole bumped a body, causing it to roll over and-

“Wait,” Stiles blurted. “Wait a second, hold on, stop.” He leaned forward over the rail as far as he could get, legs lifting in his quest to see closer to the water. 

Arms wrapped around his thighs, keeping him from going overboard. 

He muttered a thanks but didn’t turn to see who had him. He waited, holding his breath, until the corpse of a woman floated by and confirmed his suspicions. 

Her face was discolored and bloated, pale and bluish, and bright green vines trailed from her eyes, pushing the lids wide apart. Thorny, brown vines curled out of and around her ears, tangled in her stringy brown hair, while flowers burst, soggy and white, from her mouth, her blackened lips. 

A man near her had yellow and purple flowers crowded in his eye sockets, with vines twisting out of his mouth and nose. He had a gaping wound in his chest overflowing with weeds and dandelions. 

Stiles looked over at Boyd. “How did they die?”

Boyd swallowed and took a deep breath, then looked back over at the water. “You heard him,” he said. “How were you killed? One at a time,” he snapped. “Or I can’t help you.” His gaze focused on one spot, like someone was standing there. 

Stiles dropped back off the rail, grimacing. He hadn’t realized Boyd might not _like_ talking to ghosts. 

Boyd looked over at Stiles, frowning. “They say elves killed them.”

Stiles looked down at the bodies while Boyd kept speaking to the ghosts, urging them not to linger and to please only talk one at a time. 

Lise eyed him while everyone got back to moving debris out of the way, clutching her pool pole like a weapon. “You knew it was elves?”

He bit his lip, trying not to think about what he was pushing out of the way. “I suspected nature spirits.”

“Why? They usually stay inland, close to forests.”

Stiles glanced at her, then looked back at the water. Vines were tangled around his pole, attaching him to a body so disfigured with plants that it barely looked like a person. White flower petals drifted along the surface of the water, caught in the tiny currents made by them pushing debris out of the way. “They’re mad, and they’re scared,” he said at last. “They can’t grow things the way they used to, and they’re afraid they won’t be able to fix things. They’re afraid of death. Plus,” he sighed, shaking vines from the pole, “this is their work. Fey or elves.”

Lise nodded slowly. 

Boyd groaned, lowering his head. 

Lydia stepped up beside him, startling Stiles; he’d thought she was still asleep. She set a hand on Boyd’s arm. “You okay?” she murmured. 

He nodded, but his jaw was clenched tight, sweat beading on his forehead. “I can’t get them all,” he muttered. 

“What do you mean?”

He and Lydia glanced at Stiles blankly, Boyd’s eyes glazed and strange, pupils wide. “I can banish ghosts, but only one at a time, and there’s a lot of them, and they’re all talking at once.”

Lydia squeezed his arm. When he stepped back from the rail, she took his place. Her hair was down and damp, curling in the cool morning air. She inhaled, rested her hands on the taffrail, and screamed. 

Stiles automatically clamped his hands over his ears, letting the pool pole clatter to his feet. 

A banshee’s scream was like nothing Stiles had ever heard; not fear or sorrow but a war cry, a challenge…a weapon.

Lise had thrown her hands over her ears, too, backpedaling off the platform with a high whine.

Jamel crouched, holding his head, eyes gleaming silver between squinted eyelids. 

Lydia stopped after a moment, breathing hard. “They’re gone?”

Boyd nodded. 

She glanced at Stiles, noticing his bewildered expression. “Ghosts are just energy. My screams scatter them.” She looked over the rail, a grimace twisting her mouth. “They’ll return, but not until after we’re gone.”

Stiles flinched as an ice pick of pain dug into his temple. “Why were they—still here?” he managed. 

Boyd shook his head. “A lot of them linger now, but I don’t know why. I try to get them to move on.” He rubbed his eyes and glanced back at the wreckage they were leaving behind, swallowing. 

“Ah.” Sweat broke across Stiles’s forehead, but he held out until Lydia and Boyd left the platform. Wide-eyed and unseeing, he lowered his head to the rail, fighting the tug of the witch’s mind. Della’s mind. Pulling at his like quicksand, sucking at him until it was all he could do to keep his head above the surface. 

“Are you okay?” Asher’s voice seemed disembodied beside him, echoing and strange. 

“The witch. She’s trying to…get in.”

Asher hissed. “Do you want to dig back? You could learn more about her…and it’ll hurt her.”

“ _Yes._ ”

Asher grabbed the back of his neck and Stiles felt the swell of psychic magic, not unlike the kind he’d used to warn Laura of danger but stronger. The mark on his left arm burned until he felt it in his bones. He catapulted into Della’s mind.

She was unprepared for the return attack and flinched, and Stiles slipped in under her defenses. She was angry, but he wanted to go further back, dig in like a burrowing mole. 

He dug deeper, sharpening his invasion like a knife. _Della Summers. Who are you?_ he thought, and dug even deeper. 

She was supposed to be in charge. That was something she believed so ferociously that she obliterated any possible threat to her rule. She had wanted the collection to herself; she did all kinds of experimental magic before the bombs. A natural leader, a witch purist, creative. She should’ve been the head of the collective. That was why they died in the bombs, she knew. They’d denied her entry and they’d been killed.

_Where are you?_

Stiles saw from her eyes. 

Frost crawled over grass, up the trunks of black and pink trees, onto branches and leaves until the forest gleamed like a diamond.

Elves knelt before her and she smiled because she deserved it, a queen and her army. The fey wouldn’t be far behind them, once she told them she could use garden and nature magic and could set their homes to rights.

She would use the elves and fey to secure her position, eliminate that pirate lizard she’d heard of, the “queen” in the south.

First, the pirate Ari. Della might not have been able to find her on the water—she bared her teeth and ice spread around her—but she could find plenty of others. She’d taken another witch just yesterday, and her power was singing inside. Garden magic, textile magic. Pathetic. She hungered for the explosive magic Stiles had, the shapeless power of Asher _Clarke_ , that bitch from the collective’s son. With their magic, she would crush the pirate and the imposter queen and then, threats eliminated, she would rule as she was destined to. Fate had ensured it, after all.

Stiles reeled back, physically and mentally, panting.

Asher was staring at him, pale and shocked. “I knew her. Before. I knew her.” 

“Huh?”

Asher rubbed his face, badly shaken. “That woman—Della Summers—before the bombs, was charged with several crimes by the collective: exposing magic to a crowd, non-defensive attacks on humans, magical experiments on unwilling subjects. She tried to join the collective, but they charged her and put her in their prison cells to await her punishment.” He looked around wildly. “She was meant to be stripped of her magic the day of the bombs.”

Stiles’s jaw dropped. 

_She isn’t supposed to have magic._ Grace, the psychic from Mad Hollow, had told him that when she’d told him Della’s name, though she hadn’t understood what that meant. 

He guessed he knew what she meant now. He shuddered. 

Asher shook his head. “The bombs must’ve destroyed her cell.”

Stiles rubbed his face. _Fate._ He started to laugh. “She thinks that the bombs stopping her punishment means she’s supposed to rule.”

“Divine right,” Asher muttered. “There’s always someone who thinks they’ve got a right to everything.”

Stiles looked over the rail, but most of the debris had been cleared, leaving just the blue-gray water. “We have to warn Ari that she’s gunning for her. Which I don’t get, by the way. Ari isn’t exactly setting up or taking a stand.”

Asher looked over at the cabin where Ari had been sleeping since setting the other ship ablaze. “She’s powerful. Della _would_ consider her a threat, if she’s worried about people fighting back. Plus, she’s a pretty good leader and can get people organized.” He smiled to himself.

Stiles had to look away. “Right. Well, um, we should let her know.” He rubbed his arm where the mark was, trying to erase the phantom burn. 

“I’ll do it.” Asher studied him for a moment before walking away. 

Boyd and Lydia passed him to get back to Stiles; Boyd had a notebook in one hand, shoulders tense. “What was that about?”

Stiles let go of his arm. “That witch we’re—I’m running from is recruiting and out to get…basically everyone now.” He looked over the ship, watched Wyatt putting the poles back on a wall hook and Lise sweeping soggy petals and vines off the deck. 

Asher knocked on the door of the cabin, waited, and went in, closing the door behind him.

Jamel and Nadine were standing over a table, leaning close to a sheet of large paper that looked like a crude map. Jamel was nodding as Nadine spoke, his expression troubled. 

“She’s recruiting elves and faeries to help her,” he said, finally turning back.

Lydia crossed her arms. “Elves and the fey don’t align with anyone, especially not witches. Nadine excluded,” she added. “And she’s only here because the elves she grew up with were killed and she was alone, and Ari offered her safety.” 

“They’re aligning with her now. I saw it. I think she’s telling them she can help them with nature magic if they help her.”

Lydia’s brow creased, her gaze sharp and intense. “Stiles,” she bit out, “you’re not thinking about leaving?”

He looked away, licking his lips. “She’s trying to stamp out any possibility of taking over like a dictator, Lydia. I can’t let her do that.” 

Boyd let out an explosive sigh. “I knew it was only a matter of time.”

“For what?” Stiles asked hotly.

Boyd rolled his eyes at Lydia. “You try to act like you don’t care about anyone, but once you find a cause, you’ll risk anything to fight for it.” 

“That isn’t true! I care about you guys and my dad, and _that’s it._ ”

“And the rest of the world.”

“Only because I have to _live_ in it.”

Lydia scoffed. 

Stiles clenched his jaw. “I’m _not_ letting her kill everyone who might stand up to her bullshit. I don’t care if that makes me sound soft or whatever.”

Lydia frowned at him. “We didn’t say it made you soft or weak, but we _know_ you, Stiles. You try to do the right thing and then act like you’re doing it for selfish reasons.”

“And you don’t always consider the consequences. You strategize,” Boyd added thoughtfully, “you work out a way to win no matter what the cost, but that’s the problem.”

“The cost,” Lydia murmured. “What’s the cost going to be this time, Stiles?”

 _Not you guys._ He didn’t say that. “I don’t know.” He rubbed his fingers together. “Excuse me.” He stepped around Lydia. He needed to talk to Ari, and he needed this conversation to end. 

She and Ripley were having a heated argument outside of the cabin; her skin looked strange until Stiles got close enough to see that it was copper scales on her arms, up the side of her neck, across the bridge of her nose like she was fighting a losing battle against her shift. “No. We _have_ to go, didn’t you hear what Asher said? She-” 

“I heard what he said,” Ripley snapped. “That witch who already attacked us wants to kill you and steal Asher’s magic. We can’t go _back._ ”

“We _have_ to, people will be in danger because of her hunting me! Asher said she wants to cut off my resources. If she knows about me, she must know about Mad Hollow.”

Asher met Stiles’s gaze and winced, but didn’t try to cut in.

“That’s why we can’t go back, she could be waiting for you there!”

“ _Let her,_ ” Ari snarled, then drew back, licking at her fangs. “We’re going back to Mad Hollow, whether you join us or not.”

Asher opened his mouth, but Ripley threw his arms up, frustrated, and launched straight into the air, rocking the ship.

Ari huffed. “Well, he’s getting better at straight up takeoffs instead of having to run.” She rubbed her eyes and looked at Stiles. “Thanks for the heads up.”

“Is he…?”

Asher shook his head. “He’s just blowing off steam. He always comes back.” He looked worried. 

Ari faced Stiles. “We’ll get you to the Queen of the South. I told you I would, so I will, but I have to go to Mad Hollow first.” The scales across her nose gleamed and spread down her right cheek. 

He nodded. “I understand.”

She stared at him, her eyes gleaming. “Do you?” She didn’t wait, striding off to where Nadine and Jamel were waiting for her. 

“Hey,” Asher said quietly, “just so you know…I’m going to start working on something for that tracking magic.”

Stiles stiffened, raising his gaze slowly to meet Asher’s eye. 

“I heard her thinking about it. If we work on it together, we might be able to do something about it.”

“I…” He looked over at Lydia and Boyd, felt a spasm of fear in his chest. He was going to get them and his father killed if he didn’t do something soon. “Okay.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3 <3

The docks were destroyed; they were still far enough away that Stiles couldn’t see the sign, but he could see the drifting bits of wood that were once the docks. The part of the city that had collapsed into the water was the only thing left of them, some columns, some rope; the water was choked with the remains. 

Ari stood at the hull, hands clenched white on the taffrail, her breath shuddering on every exhale. Her dark eyes tracked a piece of wood as it bobbed past them, hair whipping around her pale, still face.

Asher cursed quietly and, awkward and graceless, clambered part way up the mast. 

Stiles looked back at the gaping emptiness where the docks had been, the gray water, and cast his senses tentatively, feeling past the shore and along the path Ari had led them down the first time. He bowed forward, punched in the gut with the cold nothingness. _Oh no._

Over their heads, Asher swore again and dropped down to the deck, stumbling with his bad landing. “Ari, I don’t think-”

“We’re going.” Her voice was stiff, her gaze never leaving the buildings that acted as a wall around Mad Hollow.

Asher huffed out a quiet breath and eased back, looking worried. “Yeah,” he murmured, “I figured.”

Ari navigated the ship as close as she could without bottoming out on the crumpled buildings and chunks of pavement in the shallows, ignoring Ripley’s worried pacing right behind her. 

Jamel dropped anchor for her, lips pressed together as he worked. 

Ari waited until they’d stopped moving and tossed a rope ladder over the side of the boat, climbing down without a word. 

Ripley looked at Nadine and Jamel.

“We’ve got it,” Jamel said quietly. “You go.”

Stiles looked at Lydia and Boyd, but Boyd had backed away from the rail, gaze shunted to the side, and Lydia went with him, one hand on his arm.

She noticed Stiles watching and shook her head, grimacing. “Too many,” she mouthed, flicking her eyes to Boyd.

Too many ghosts, he realized, and guilt and fear weighed on him. He looked back at the ladder just as John was hitching his leg over the rail. “Dad, where are you going?”

“I think that’s pretty obvious,” he said dryly, straddling the rail. “They might need help.”

Stiles looked back at Lydia and Boyd, torn.

Lydia shook her head. “Go on.”

He swallowed and followed John over the railing. The water was bitingly cold, lapping at their waists as they waded toward shore. The ground was uneven, made up of thick mud and broken buildings and pavement.

Asher and Ripley walked a couple feet behind Ari, whispering worriedly and casting uneasy glances at her. Asher was also frantically searching for life, tiny, seeking psychic darts of anxiety. 

Lise splashed into the water behind Stiles with a gun strapped over her back and one in her hand. She nodded at Stiles and hurried ahead, trying to catch up with Ari. 

Stiles held his hand out to keep John steady as they clambered awkwardly over jutting pavement. They had no supplies, just Stiles’s magic and John’s gun, and the knives Ari had given them the last time they’d been to Mad Hollow. Stiles slipped, banging his knee on a metal bar and yelping. He waved John off and finally climbed out of the water just after Lise, shivering.

The air was still, heavy with the stench of stagnant water and rotting fish, humid; there was a thin trail of something almost sweet winding its way through the stink, too faint for him to get an idea of what it was.

They caught up to Ari and the others and hesitated; they were all four staring up solemnly. 

The Mad Hollow sign was hanging by a single chain, tilted vertically and covered in sprawling, frozen vines of bright red. The ice over “Mad” was so thick it completely concealed the word, leaving just “Hollow” in uneven letters. The vines hung from it, sheened with a thin layer of frost, swaying despite the lack of wind. 

Stiles looked at Ari’s face and then away quickly, unable to handle the grief gathering in her eyes. 

None of them spoke as they went down the path between buildings. The temperature dropped, sliding through their wet clothes until they were all shivering, and underfoot, instead of the fine silt of ground-down rubble was a thin layer of ice. 

Stiles swallowed, sweeping his gaze back and forth; the ice was crawling up the broken buildings, filling in the cracks, covering broken windows and doorways, everything gleaming diamond bright under the sunlight. 

The ice path thickened the closer they got to the market, widening so they had no choice but to walk on it, carefully with their arms out to keep their balance. The path was the frigid white-blue of deep winter, slick and smooth and spattered, as they moved down it, with brilliant splashes of red. 

Stiles looked at John, hoping for an explanation that this wasn’t what he thought it was. 

John nodded and squared his shoulders, taking his gun out.

Lise murmured something that made Ari shudder and shake her head. Lise grumbled but she stayed with them, hitching her rifle around so she could hold it.

Stiles couldn’t sense anything but the cold, the gaping void where life should have pulsed, but he bet Lise could smell what he couldn’t sense. 

As they walked on, it became clear that Stiles’s prediction about nature spirits was right: it was a strange mix of winter and spring, flowers twining up through the ice path, trees sprouting out of cracked open buildings dripping with frost, vines exploding from broken light posts and dripping icicles; it was freezing and the air was perfumed from the wide faced flowers that looked like sunflower-rose hybrids somehow, colored poisonous green in the petals, harsh yellow stems. 

Stiles shuddered as the path opened up to the market, his throat tightening, eyes stinging.

Ari stood frozen beside Ripley, her stance odd, like she’d taken a physical blow. 

Asher and Lise stood to the side; Asher’s arms were crossed tightly, shoulders hunched, while Lise stood with her legs apart, holding her gun in front of her.

Stiles stumbled forward, but there was no one to help.

The cracked street, once cleaned of debris and serviceable, was littered with splintered wooden stalls, broken tables, and shredded blankets. Bodies and demolished supplies were scattered throughout, pale and preserved beneath a thin, hard layer of ice. Everything was frozen, but it was clear ice, like a layer of glass had been set over the carnage, a display in horror. There was blood in the ice, and the bodies had wounds, like they’d fought—they’d been killed before being frozen. 

The wounds had flowers pushing out of them, daisy-roses, lily-sunflowers, white and green and the palest ice blue, like calling cards. 

Stiles couldn’t help glancing at the place where he’d made his first trade to two elves and shoved a fist against his mouth to keep from crying out.

Sage and Willow were dead; they must’ve fought, because they had wounds, huge gaping wounds on their guts, shoulders, Willow’s throat was torn open and Sage’s face had been cut badly. Clover spilled from their wounds, but there were also scorch marks and broken tree roots around them, as if they’d managed to at least hit back. There were thick puddles of blood under the ice around them. 

Stiles went to them but stopped a few feet away, afraid to touch, unsure what he could do. He whirled around, searching for John, and saw Ari. 

She looked pale and lost, gaze skipping over each face in the carnage and growing paler the more she saw. The ice under her boots was melting.

Ripley put a hand on her arm.

She jerked away and stumbled forward, deeper into the market; she had to wind through the destruction, knocking into overturned stalls and pieces of tables. She slipped and knocked into a body, letting out a sharp yelp before scrambling to her feet. She bolted down a side alley Stiles remembered her going down last time.

Stiles turned away, but he couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from the destruction, away from what was once a bustling market and was now a graveyard. 

The ice covered every inch of it, up the path, over the surrounding buildings; all of them were covered in flowers, trees, or vines, or in one case a heavy moss that smothered the side of a broken pharmacy. 

Stiles couldn’t help looking back at Sage and Willow. They’d fought back against the elves that’d come to aid Della; at least they’d gone down fighting, though he wished they hadn’t had to. His heart jumped suddenly with fear, but, as he scanned the faces of the dead, he didn’t see the witch and psychic duo, Grace and Erin, who’d helped him identify Della. Grace was a powerful psychic; maybe she’d sensed danger and had made Erin stay away before the attack. 

A wail rose up, animal and agonized, from the alley Ari had gone down. 

“Go,” Asher snapped, shoving Ripley.

He took off, navigating the wreckage faster than any of them could have. 

“Should we-” John began, then faltered, looking at the body of a man sprawled face down a couple feet to his left in a frozen puddle of blood.

“Yeah, come on.” Asher led the rest of them toward the alley at a more manageable pace, in a path that would keep them from stepping on or over anyone, which would have felt disrespectful. 

Stiles took up the rear, paranoid that they’d get jumped even though all he could sense was the emptiness of death around them. 

They caught up to Ripley at last, but Ari wasn’t there; he was standing near a broken stall, arms crossed tightly as his body shivered violently. His head was down so his curls flopped in his eyes. 

Asher rushed to him and stopped about a foot away, staring down with a blank, horrified expression.

Stiles caught up and reared back when he saw what they were staring at. 

The frozen, flower choked bodies of two children with red-gold scaly wings bent and broken behind them, five feet from the bodies of their parents. 

Ripley spoke with his face turned away. “Ari tried to convince them to join the crew every time we stopped here, but they thought the children were safer on land.”

Stiles stared at their broken trade stall, willing the burning in his eyes to go away. There were welded, sharpened tools scattered in the splintered wood, hammers, wrenches, and knives with leather grips, mixed with bracelets made from what looked like scraps from the handles. 

“We should move them.” John’s voice made them all flinch. “Give them a burial, in a way. Instead of leaving them like this.” 

Asher nodded solemnly. “But I’m not sure I can melt all of this.”

John looked at Stiles. 

He grimaced. “I can try, but I might…burn…”

“I’m sure you’ll do fine. Ripley, Lise, gather up the tools and the bracelets. They made them to be used,” he added. “Letting them sit here to gather dust and rot would be rude. Asher, do you think you can make flowers? Not these, but from before.”

Asher nodded, and everyone got moving, as if all they’d needed was someone to tell them what to do.

Stiles tried to be extra careful; he couldn’t bear the idea of harming this little family that had made it so far only to be killed for nothing. He kept the fire as close to his hands as possible and just moved them carefully over the ice that he needed to melt. It worked, but slowly, so that he spent a lot of time up close and personal with the bodies; he started with the children, because they were smaller and –it sucked. The smaller of the two had a short cap of black hair, wearing a blue coat and green wool pants, with a pale, puckered wound in their throat, with a single, pale blue rose curling out of it. Stiles looked away from their face and focused on defrosting without burning. 

Asher and John arranged the bodies once they were out of the ice, careful and gentle, and Ripley found a couple blankets to drape over them. Asher laid four wreaths, one on each body, comprised of different flowers, but all of them were recognizable from before the bombs, no glowing, no magic hums, just…lilies and daisies and daffodils. 

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “We are so sorry for what happened to you.”

Grief settled heavily over them, leaving them silent and breathless. 

Ari landed hard a few feet away, shattering ice under her boots. Her eyes were bloodshot, smoke curled from her nostrils, and copper scales covered her neck, across the bridge of her nose and down her arms, over her hands like gloves. Her wings were spread wide and she was giving off intense heat that Stiles could feel from ten feet away. 

The ice in the alley turned slick and wet, melting from her rage. 

She looked at the covered bodies, then away. “We have to make sure others know it isn’t safe here. We’ve got to burn it.”

“I can help.” Stiles wanted to help. He wanted to burn the ice away, burn the flowers to ash, destroy this horrible museum of death. 

Asher said, “That’s probably wise.” He stepped closer to Ari and Stiles looked away, but he only slipped one of the braided leather bracelets over her wrist. 

Her eyes went wet and shiny, but she didn’t cry. “Take everyone but Stiles back to the ship. We’ll catch up when we’ve burnt it down.” 

Asher hesitated, then nodded, stepping back to Ripley’s side and resting his head on his shoulder briefly. 

Lise looked at Ari for a long second. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. She cleared her throat. “Come on, let’s move. The faster we go, the faster they can get rid of this atrocity.” She led the way.

“You gonna be okay?” John asked quietly.

“Yeah, Dad, go on.” Stiles crooked a smirk. “Remember, I’m _good_ with fire.”

He huffed a laugh. “Yeah, I remember. See you on the ship.”

“Yeah.”

They had to wait until the others had gotten back to the ship so they wouldn’t get caught in the fire, so Stiles took the time to consider how he would do this. He had several fire spells, though he had never used the strongest of them. He looked at the ice glittering around them, the flowers and the bodies. He’d need the power. 

Ari looked at him, pale and furious. “Is she doing this to everyone?” Her voice was crisp, almost sharp, each word enunciated carefully to conceal how shaken she was. 

“She destroys anything that looks like rebuilding or community. She wants everyone scattered, scared, and hopeless.”

Ari’s jaw flexed. “Then we won’t be.” She stepped out of the alley, into the middle of the market. Her fire was a tool, a _click-whoosh_ of fury and pain and sorrow, eating over the splintered stalls, the thick ice, the flowers, the death, golden and intense. It poured from her outstretched wings, from her hands, racing out from under her boots to the buildings surrounding them. The heat was intense, even from twenty feet away, making the air difficult to breathe, smoke thickening as the buildings and trees caught. 

Stiles brought his hands to chest height, palms up, and clenched them into fists; then he turned them over and opened them, throwing his hands out at his sides. His fire burned white hot and blew over the other half of the city like a gust. As it moved, sinuous and snakelike, over the ground and up the sides of buildings, it cooled to blue, then red, then his usual orange, devouring everything in its path. It closed over Willow and Sage’s bodies, the roots twisting out of the ice near them, and he murmured an apology. The flames tunneled through broken windows, ate their way up the blue and red vines that’d grown there, the unnatural flowers growing in places they shouldn’t have.

His eyes stung with the smoke and heat. _Rest,_ he thought to the dead, the murdered, and his hatred for Della nearly strangled him. 

The flames roared, racing up the sides of the buildings closest to him, jumping to the ones behind those, the surrounding leftovers of the city this place was once, surrounding him and Ari, eating up broken stalls, vines, flowers.

Della was the reason Stiles wasn’t with the Hales, Derek’s affection and Laura’s uneasy leadership and Peter’s silent loyalty. She’d killed these people with her greed and hunger and self-interest; she’d taken countless lives and ruined everything that came too close to her.

Stiles flexed his hands. His fire crackled like lightning and intensified, engulfing every building in sight, mingling with Ari’s golden flames. He coughed, throwing his elbow over his mouth and nose, but it didn’t help—his eyes watered and stung as the smoke thickened around them. 

The entire city was ablaze, the air unbreathable with heat, smoke, and ash. Stiles choked, tipping forward over his knees as his head swam.

Ari hooked an arm around his waist and launched straight into the air, using the updrafts from the fire to carry them higher. 

Stiles looked down at the blaze. 

Their flames were mingling and spreading; buildings were slowly but surely crumbling under the intense heat. 

“Thank you,” she breathed. Her arms were completely covered in scales, fingers ending in claws against his ribs, and the upper half of her face looked masked with copper scales, eyes gleaming and pupils slit like a lizard’s. 

“Are you okay?”

“I will be.”

They landed hard on the deck of the ship minutes later; the whole crew was waiting for them. Stiles stumbled away from her, bending over his knees to try to catch his breath and choking the smoke out of his lungs. 

“Ari,” Nadine gasped. “I’m so sorry, we’re all—but I’m—” She shook her head, eyes swimming.

Ari clasped her arm, a firm, meaningful squeeze, before looking over the crew as a whole. “We need to move on. Supplies will be harder to come by now, but we’ll be okay. Let’s move.”

John put his hand between Stiles’s shoulders. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he rasped. “Fire’s never really been a problem for me.” He straightened up, rubbing tears off his face and shuffling over to the stairs to sit. He cast his senses out. For once, he was searching out the Hales, desperate and scared they would be dead just like those at Mad Hollow. The silver cords shone brightly in his mind. 

They were exhausted and hungry, but too nervous to sleep—something had attacked them, but he couldn’t tell what, just that none of them were hurt. 

Stiles clenched his hands until his palms bled and kept clenching. 

They were scared, but Della hadn’t given them a single thought, so that meant Stiles made the right choice. 

He looked up and noticed John watching him. He cleared his throat. “Dad, this is my fault.” He swallowed. “If I leave, she’ll come after me.”

“Or not,” John pointed. “You don’t know that. She wants Asher and Ari, too.”

He shook his head. “She wouldn’t know about them if it wasn’t for me.” 

“You said she knew about Ari already.”

“Okay, but Asher-”

“Son, just spit out whatever you’re trying to say so we can get it over with.”

Stiles wanted to jump up and pace, wanted to shout until the aching pain in his chest went away, spew the guilt until he could breathe without choking on it. Instead, he clenched his fists again. “I think you should stay on the boat once they drop me off to find the Queen of the South. I’ll warn her, like you want me to,” he added quickly.

John snorted. “Yeah, sure, because it’s been super safe on the boat so far.”

Stiles scowled. 

“Why are you like this?” John sighed. 

He stiffened, hurt and insulted. “I don’t want you to get hurt.” Didn’t he know that, hadn’t he realized everything Stiles was doing was to keep him alive?

“We need to stay together,” he said, gently as if he’d realized he’d hurt him. “How would you feel if I died here and you didn’t know for weeks, months, what’d happened?”

“Don’t say that,” Stiles gasped, fear grasping an icy hand around his heart at the thought. 

“Then stop trying to split us up.” He squeezed Stiles’s shoulder and walked away, crossing his arms behind his head. 

Stiles hunched over his knees, misery eating at him from the inside. 

Lydia sat on his left, Boyd his right; the stairs weren’t really wide enough, but they’d never had a problem invading each other’s space, and didn’t hesitate to squash Stiles between them. 

He took a deep breath, and thought, _Okay, I can do this. I can keep them safe,_ but he didn’t believe it, not really. He thought that about the Hales, and instead, he’d delivered them to a power hungry witch.

It’d been Laura’s plan, but he’d helped, and—if he hadn’t been there, perhaps Della wouldn’t have bothered with them. She wanted _witches_ , right?

He’d thought he could keep the Hales safe, but really he’d just abandoned them to the whims of a magically mutated world without magical help. He gulped and curled his bloodied right hand around the mark on his arm, digging his magic in as deep as he could, imagining it like a knife, cutting beneath the surface. He dug his nails into his skin until he was sure it’d left marks, but it made no difference. The tracking spell remained firmly in place, immovable, infuriating. He scattered the magic instead, sending it in one long, continuous trail to one of the forests he’d stayed in with the Hales, viciously hoping she would follow it for nothing. Maybe she’d get eaten by a bear.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ^^

Laura jumped over a sapphire log, her lungs burning, but she never faltered. Her boots dug through slick wet leaves as she ran, pumping her arms and hoping nothing else heard the commotion and joined the chase. She ducked low hanging branches and slapped leaves and insects out of her way, causing an angry swarm of mosquitos the size of hummingbirds to scatter. 

Behind her, the hog grunted, its heavy footfalls filling the woods like a threatening soundtrack. It was bigger than the one that’d dragged her underground all those weeks…months?...ago, bigger, with tusks and one extra leg sprouting from its back that just sort of kicked uselessly as it chased her. 

Laura bore down, gritting her teeth when she smelled blood. Where the hell were Peter and Derek? She couldn’t lead this thing around forever; it wasn’t tiring as quickly as she’d hoped it would. Her left foot shot out from under her, skidding over the wet leaves, and she tumbled. She rolled with the fall and landed on her knees, facing the hog with bared fangs. Her face tingled as the partial shift moved over her. 

The hog screamed and put its head down, charging her. 

She dug her claws into damp earth and braced. 

Its tusk pierced her shoulder as it slammed into her, making her snarl.

She grunted and flung it off of her, throwing it onto its back.

It leaped back up, surprisingly spry for such an uncoordinated-looking creature. 

Laura’s gaze shot to the extra leg on its back. “Oh, god, what the fuck.”

The hog roared and charged her, but she rolled out of its way this time, slamming her shoulder into a tree trunk. 

Derek lunged out behind the hog and landed on its back fully shifted, wet snarls spilling from his throat. 

Peter crept out of the shadows, his shape as jarring for its wrongness as it was a relief. His long, thin tail lashed whip-like behind him, overlarge fangs bared as he stalked closer to Derek and the hog.

Derek’s fangs were dug deep into the hog’s back, spilling fresh blood all over the leaf litter. 

Laura leaned back against the tree, breathing heavily, eyes slit as she watched Derek hang on even as the hog squealed and tried to buck him off. She pulled her shirt away from her bleeding shoulder so it could heal, mildly annoyed that it was stained and torn more than it already had been. She was running out of clothes that provided sufficient protection from the elements. She pinched the wet part of her sleeve between her fingers, mouth moving into a pout. Where was a mall when you needed one? She missed shopping. 

Peter snarled and darted in under the hog’s tusks when it threw its head back, clamping his sharp fangs around its throat. He dug his claws into the ground and yanked his head back, ears going flat, eyes closing against the spray of blood. 

Laura dropped her hands on her knees, picking unconsciously at the mud drying on her jeans.

The hog collapsed under Derek, twitching and jerking as it bled out.

Derek got up, picking his way around it delicately like he didn’t want to get his paws dirty, and stopped in front of Laura. He had blood all over his muzzle, eyes gleaming bright gold.

Laura wrinkled her nose at him. “I’ll get a fire going if you guys want to skin it. We can cook it and eat.”

Peter snorted. 

They used to just eat the meat raw—their stomachs could handle it—but ever since they’d started cooking for the Stilinskis, Laura had remembered how much she’d missed cooked meals. So they’d continued to cook their food even after Stiles and John were gone, even though Peter clearly thought it was a waste of time. 

The hog was big, so Laura needed to make a big fire, which was easier said than done with Peter pacing impatiently behind her and no magic at her disposal. 

Derek took care of the hog, which Laura appreciated—at least only one of them was watching her fail.

Peter shifted back with a huff and took the sticks from her, hunching over the pile of tinder she’d already made. 

“Sure, go ahead,” she muttered. “I wasn’t doing any good anyway.” She went to help Derek; they couldn’t cook it whole, and a knife would cut easier than their claws. 

The trees were skinny and yellow here, with bright orange leaves that made them look like columns of fire, spaced out widely and offering little cover. 

The sun was still up, creeping toward the horizon as meat sizzled and popped. 

Laura looked over Derek, who was staring blankly into the flames, and Peter, who was once again pacing in his wolf shape, a strange, knobby shadow, and chewed her lip. She needed to motivate them. Derek hadn’t argued with her for days about their destination, or her humming, or where they should sleep for the night. She was worried about him. He’d always been a romantic, had fallen hard and fast and _completely_ every time before Laura even realized he had a crush. The worst part was that romance just kept _not_ working out for him, a nice salt to the already throbbing wound. She pressed her fingertips into the soft dirt beside her. Traced the letter _T_ before remembering Peter and Derek were awake and might see it and clenching her hand. “Thank you for cutting the hog up, Derek,” she said.

He lifted his gaze slowly. “Welcome,” he mumbled.

“And thanks for starting the fire, Peter.”

He surprised her by pressing his cheek to hers from behind, tail whacking her shoulder slightly. 

She reached back to rub his ears, grinning when he rumbled happily. She remembered what he looked like in his shift before, a hulking deep brown wolf with a notch in his ear that Talia had made on accident before Laura was born. She wondered if he’d ever look like that again.

Peter slipped out of reach and wandered into the trees, his coat gleaming like an oil spill in the sun.

Laura looked at Derek. She could let him sit and wallow, she supposed, let the wound fester. But what kind of sister did that? “Derek, why are you moping still? It sucked, but-” 

He glowered at her. “I’m _not_ moping. Leave it alone.” He hunched over his knees, glaring at the ground.

“Right.” She dragged the word out.

He looked up, misery etched around his mouth and in his eyes. “If it wasn’t a big deal, why does it feel like we just lost our pack again?”

Laura stiffened. “They weren’t—it’s not like—they’re not dead,” she managed. “We didn’t _lose_ anyone.” 

“Feels like it,” he muttered. “And they aren’t here, so…” He stood, brushing leaves off his pants, and leaned over the fire to turn the meat. 

Laura scowled at a tree directly across from her, because she couldn’t admit that Derek was right. It _did_ feel like they’d lost pack. She closed her eyes and felt a wave of grief that wasn’t hers, thick and suffocating like smoke, passing over her from a great distance. 

A hand closed on her arm and Derek’s pale, anxious face was hovering over hers when she opened her eyes. “What happened?”

She shook her head; she’d fallen backwards, laying sprawled, but she needed to concentrate. It felt like John and Stiles were alive, but they were both mired in grief and fury so strong she could sense it, when she should only sense the bare minimum. “Nothing, I—I think I need some water.” She sat up while Derek scrambled to get a bottle of water, untangling wet leaves from her hair. “Thanks,” she murmured, sipping from the bottle. 

Peter watched her from across the fire, ears lowered, and she remembered with a jolt that he was an alpha, too. Could he sense them like she could, or had he guessed what’d happened? 

“Let’s stay here a bit,” Derek said. “Maybe for the night. Rest. We can get going before dawn to make up for lost time.” He looked scared instead of stubborn, so Laura just tiredly agreed with him.

She fell asleep before the sun had even set.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting again because if I don't, I'm going to keep rereading this chapter trying to edit it, so. Here we are. <3

Despite Ari’s determination to get as far from the ruins of Mad Hollow as possible, they had to stop eventually. They needed food and Asher needed supplies, both of which they were running low on. Wyatt dragged out a bunch of fishing nets with Nadine’s help, chattering at Stiles and Lydia about a book Asher had given him to read. Like before, it seemed more to fill the silence than any real need to discuss a book about winemaking, but this time, Stiles appreciated the distraction. 

Boyd was sitting in the shade writing in his journal while Stiles and Lydia helped Wyatt untangle the nets. He’d been doing that a lot since the bodies from the shipwreck, his expression closed off and cold.

Stiles wanted to ask, but couldn’t seem to make himself, like it would be too pushy or invasive. He hated feeling that way, because before, they were close enough that he could tell whether it would be too much or not. 

Lydia looked at him while she worked. “Are you going to fish?”

“Huh? Oh, no. Asher said he’s going ashore to grow some stuff, so I thought I’d tag along, try to learn a little. I’m still really awful at garden magic.” 

“I see. We’ll probably go with.”

Stiles winced, gaze drawn automatically to John; he and Alden were doing inventory of what was left of their food across the deck, talking in low voices and writing on water damaged clipboards. “I was going to ask if you could keep an eye on Dad. He wants to stay and fish, and I don’t want him to be alone.” 

Lydia’s eyes narrowed. “Alright. One of us will stay with Dad, and the other will go with you.”

He lifted a brow at her. “What, you think I’m going to sneak off on my own?”

“The thought crossed my mind.”

Stiles looked down at the net he was untangling. “I’d tell you I was leaving.” He realized Wyatt had stopped talking and flushed, embarrassed. 

Wyatt was trying to look like he wasn’t eavesdropping, but they were all standing close, so he must’ve heard. He felt Stiles watching and looked up. He always smiled with his whole face, and this time was no exception, though he was pink-cheeked at being caught. “Asher saved some books from the collective. He’s been studying them and letting me study them. Did you know kinetics are what happens when witch bloodlines get super diluted? Like, if my great-great-great-great grandfather was a witch but married a non-witch, and all of their kids kept marrying non-witches, eventually, a kinetic would happen?”

“I knew they were related, but not that directly. Cool.”

Wyatt nodded. “Of course, there’s people like Boyd and Lydia and me who must’ve had _some_ power in our blood, but it was dormant until the magic brought it out. We’re trying to figure out why.” 

“Did Asher say where we’re going to take him?” Lydia asked. 

Wyatt shook his head. “Somewhere nearby, though. He wants to go quickly.” His face fell a little, but it only took him a moment to shake it off. “I’m sure everyone will feel better the further we get.”

“I’m sure.” 

He observed the nets. “That’s good enough,” he declared, standing.

Asher called out for them to head west. “See that?” He tipped his hand to the side. “There’s an island. Drop us off there, then go deeper and fish. As long as you’re still able to see us, I’m sure we’ll all be fine.”

Wyatt nodded. “There are plenty of fish, plus-” He pointed at the island- “there are some trees, so you could use those for your potions.” 

“Right.” Asher smiled slightly at him, though he looked strained.

Stiles looked at Lydia, chewing the inside of his cheek. “You’ve got to stay with my dad.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

“If anything happens, we’ll be able to hear you scream.” He looked down. “Please?”

“You know we won’t let anything happen to him.” She pinched his arm. “But you don’t go ordering me around, got it?”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “Got it. Thank you.” 

She nodded, staring off behind him. “Be careful. I…” She rubbed her fingers together. “We haven’t separated since we found each other.” She swallowed. “We always stick close together now, because it was just us and if we lost one another…”

Stiles looked over at Boyd, who was still writing. “You could both stay on the boat. I’ll be fine.” 

She glared at him. “We don’t want _you_ alone, either. We’ll all be fine.” She crossed her arms. “Just don’t do anything stupid.”

They got the ship as close to the island as they could, where Boyd, Wyatt, Asher, Stiles, and Nadine disembarked and waded ashore with buckets, tubs, and bags for supplies. 

The island was small and beachy, mostly made up of bright white sand near the water and soaring, oddly shaped and colored palm trees in the middle. 

“I can probably grow some produce by the trees, but I want to gather some plant life first.” Asher observed the waves lapping at the sand. 

Stiles prodded at it and tilted his head. “Something under there has a magical hum. A few things.” He cast his senses wider, trying to ignore the usual pinch of guilt when he felt the Hales. “There’s a lot of useful plants nearby, but I can’t get a read on what.”

Asher nodded. “It’s the water, it’s already humming on its own, but yeah, I can sense the plants, too.” He and Nadine began discussing the best way to gather the plants, but Stiles’s attention was dragged away—he had a faint shimmery connection that he didn’t recognize in his head. 

Lydia, John, and Boyd’s were all where they were supposed to be, and the Hales were still inexplicably bright and strong, but there was another flickering at the edges of his consciousness, trying to form in that same moon-pale silver that the Hales were.

“Stiles? Do you agree?”

“Huh?” He blinked to clear his vision. “I can help get them, yeah.”

Asher and Nadine glanced at each other. “Okay. Boyd and Wyatt are going to clear a space for me up by the palm trees while we forage.”

“Great.” Stiles started pulling his pants off. “I know we’re already wet, but it’s just easier to swim like this.”

Nadine did the same, tossing her pants and shirt in the sand by Stiles’s things and grinning, rubbing her hands together. “Let’s get some plants.”

Wyatt led Boyd to the trees, telling him about the history of kinetics as they went.

Stiles smiled to himself and waded into the water up past his ankles. It was chilly but not frigid, warmed by the bright, summery sun. He wondered what season it was, but decided not to think about it—it didn’t matter, the weather was completely unpredictable. 

“Forgot your bucket.” Nadine handed him a red bucket with some faded company logo on the side.

“Thanks.” He swept up some stringy green plants that were fluttering around his legs. They had a high powered hum that felt almost medicinal, but the magic was tangled up with the currents in the water, making it hard to understand. 

Nadine muttered to herself. “Okay, guys, I’m gonna help this along.” She set a hand on the surface of the water.

Leafy, glowing blue kelp shot up out of the water, soft to the touch and humming with protective magic.

“That’s awesome, thank you, Nadine.” Asher flicked a finger at it, breaking the stalks and sending glowing blue leaves trailing over the surface. 

Nadine pursed her lips. “I was trying to make normal kelp.” 

“Oh, well…” He looked at the kelp, grimacing.

Stiles started gathering the floating pieces before they could drift away, rubbing it against his palms to try to understand the magic a little better. 

Nadine put both her hands in the water; red and silver algae gathered on the surface, giving off magic, but Stiles couldn’t tell what kind.

Asher sucked his lips in between his teeth. “I’m sure it’ll work for something.” 

The water lapped low around their legs, filling the silence while Nadine glowered at it. She growled something and clenched her hands; brilliant gold flowers shaped like poinsettias bloomed out of the water, nearly as tall as she was. “ _Ugh!_ ” She flung her hands up, splashing them both with water. 

“I’ve got it from here,” Asher said gently. “Why don’t you-”

“I’m an _elf_ , Asher,” she snapped, flicking her white hair behind her shoulders. “This should be as easy as breathing.”

Stiles looked down, concentrating on gathering the glowing pieces of kelp and algae.

“I know, and I understand it’s frustrating. Take a break. It isn’t going to get fixed in a day,” he added. “A little bit of practice is all we can ask for.”

She bared her teeth and stamped out of the water, kicking up waves and ripples. 

Asher winced. “Could’ve gone worse, I guess.”

“Yeah.” Stiles plucked a piece of kelp up. “Does she always-?”

“Grow things like _that_? Yeah. I think there has to be some…essence of what they’re trying to grow where they grow it, which means it’s going to turn out the way it would if it’d grown on its own.” He rubbed a hand over his head, dampening his hair. “It stresses her out, seeing something that she didn’t intend to do happen.” 

“I understand that.” He glanced over his shoulder toward her, remembering his magic crumbling the ground to ash instead of growing anything. “Maybe I should go see if she’s okay. Do you mind?”

“No, go ahead. If you could send Wyatt down, though, I’d appreciate it.”

Stiles nodded and splashed back up to the sand. He set his bucket in the dry sand and pulled his jeans and shirt back on, flinching as his shirt rubbed over his shoulders, which felt tender from the sun.

Nadine was sitting by the trees, arms crossed as she glowered at the water, while Boyd wrote in his notebook across from her and Wyatt used his powers to levitate small gray stones in a circle around his head. 

He noticed Stiles and grinned. “I’m practicing dexterity. Asher and Jamel both said I could use it.”

Stiles couldn’t help grinning back. “Yeah, finesse was never my strong suit either.”

Wyatt nodded. “I’m much better at just…” He waved an arm and sent sand spraying into the air violently.

Nadine covered her head. “ _Hey!_ ”

“Sorry! Anyway, that’s why I have to practice.”

“You’re doing okay. Asher asked if you could come help him,” he added. “Please.”

“Sure.” He let the rocks thump to the ground and got up, brushing dirt and twigs off his pants before loping off to Asher. 

Stiles looked at Nadine, opening his mouth and hesitating. 

She scowled up at him. “Don’t try to comfort me. I’ve got a right to pout.”

“Uh-huh, okay. If you’re interested, I’m gonna go check out that weird looking tree.” He pointed his thumb over his shoulder. “But stay here and pout, by all means.” He walked away and smirked when he heard her following him. 

The tree in question was wider around the others and the bark was a burnt orange color. It was bent over toward the water with long, thin branches swaying like hair, covered in blue leaves that were perfect circles, as big around as Stiles’s palm. 

He put his hand on the trunk and closed his eyes, listening to the magic humming off of it. He sucked his bottom lip into his mouth. He liked the sound of it, the way it felt, though he couldn’t tell what it would do. It felt familiar, like its magic was similar to his own. He pulled his knife out of his boot—the only place he had to store it—and scraped some of the peeling bark off until he had a handful. He picked some of the leaves, too, selecting them with care, listening for any out of tune humming. Before the bombs, the most he had to do was pick out the best crystal out of a bowl of many with the same type of hums, or pick the best of several similar herbs. Now he had to listen and understand, and not for the first time, he wished he had the means and time to document everything. A bestiary, a Book of Shadows, a grimoire. Something to keep track of everything now that everything was different. 

He put his hand on the trunk of the tree when he finished gathering leaves. “Thank you.” He wasn’t usually sentimental, but he thought he should be—after all, with so much dead, everything left alive should be appreciated. 

Nadine was looking at him funny when he turned around, her silver eyes inscrutable. 

“What?”

“I’ve never seen a witch thank a plant before.”

Stiles busied himself putting the bark and leaves into his pockets. “I don’t usually.”

She just nodded. 

“Pah. Herspa ta blanree?”

Stiles frowned and turned, then jumped.

A mermaid was watching them, propped up on her elbows in the wet part of the sand. She was still mostly in the water, her white tail fin coming up occasionally. Her skin was midnight blue with white speckles, her hair brilliant, candy-apple red, spread in the sand and water around her. 

“English,” Nadine replied, then asked, “Sa tal?” She looked wary. 

“Yes,” the mermaid responded slowly, in a deep purr of a voice. “The plants are strange now. How come you’re using them?” She dragged webbed, clawed fingers through the wet sand. 

“Um…” Stiles glanced at Nadine.

She shrugged, so they moved closer to the mermaid together.

“They’re still magical,” Stiles answered, “so I’m going to use them to make potions.”

The mermaid’s eyes glowed briefly blue. “Oh, birjstch.”

“What?”

She pursed her lips, considering her words, then looked at Nadine. 

“Witch. He’s a witch.”

She nodded and kept playing with the sand. “I can smell your magic.” Her nose twitched. “Did it protect you during the explosion?”

Stiles sat in the sand near her; it felt strange looming so high above someone while having a conversation, even if he was a little worried about her dragging him into the depths to drown or eat him. “Yes, it did.”

“We had to…” She paused and turned her head. 

Stiles gasped as a dozen hot pink, orange, and pastel purple crabs bigger than house cats came scurrying out of the water. 

The mermaid snapped her teeth impatiently and started shooing the crabs, speaking in clicks and huffs. 

Stiles watched, tense, as the miniature army paused, apparently considering her words. Their claws were oversized, sharpened to points and gleaming in the sun.

She snapped her teeth again and made wide flinging gestures. _Go away. Far away._

They trailed back into the water in a colorful little line, snapping at the mermaid’s unimpressed face. 

She looked at Stiles. “They’re nosy,” she sniffed. “But mostly harmless.”

Stiles smiled and she looked fascinated. “What?”

“I forgot what it means. The land people, when they…” She bared her teeth in an uncertain smile. 

Stiles laughed. “Uh, I guess it means a lot of things.” He glanced at Nadine for help but she just held up her hands and shook her head. “It’s to show that I’m happy,” he finished lamely. 

She nodded. “Do you do magic?”

He held his hand out obligingly, flicking a fire ball to life.

She gasped and reached out, snatching at it just as he let it die. She wiggled her fingers in the smoke and snickered, an open-mouthed noise that left her lips unmoved. It was strange. “Did you do that during the explosions?”

“Uh…no, I sort of shielded myself.” 

She tilted her head. “We hid with our deep sea cousins until the water stopped boiling.”

“Was it very long?”

“Yes.” She flicked her tail, spattering Stiles with little water droplets. 

Stiles watched her draw in the sand, roiling waves and lines that looked like they might represent explosions. “Is that how it looked?”

“Yes. Fish were dying. Some changed.” She flicked sand off her fingers, rubbing the webbing between with the curve of a claw. She leered at Stiles. “Aren’t you worried I’ll drown you if you get too close?” She stretched out an arm to demonstrate that she could reach him.

“Well, I _wasn’t_ , since we were having a conversation.” He smiled at her. 

She tried to reciprocate, baring her sharp teeth and pulling her lips up at the corners. 

“That’s good!” he said, struggling against laughter. 

She nodded and stopped, reaching back into the frothy surf near her tail. She produced a smooth silver rock with notches carefully carved into one side. She turned it over so the notches were vertical and ran it down her left shoulder, leaving bright red cuts. She lunged forward and swiped the rock against Stiles’s left forearm, right over the tracking mark.

He yelped as it left four stinging scratches through the fingermarks, blood beading along each line.

She held out the rock. “Don’t lose your pod,” she said solemnly. 

Stiles tentatively took the rock, still stunned from the attack. Was it an attack? She didn’t seem hostile. 

The pelvic fins on the sides of her tail wiggled and flapped, then flared wide. She nodded and retreated into the water. 

Stiles looked back at Nadine, baffled. 

She was frozen, curved forward like she’d been about to intervene. “She must have been fairly young,” she said at last, relaxing and frowning toward the water. 

He couldn’t tell. “What the hell is this?” He pressed his bleeding arm to his shirt. 

“No idea. A tool of some kind, maybe? I don’t know what it could be for, or why she cut you with it.”

“And herself,” he pointed out. He checked the cuts. They were bleeding sluggishly, nothing serious, and had distorted the fingermarks. He turned the rock over in his hands. It was cool to the touch, smooth and weighty. “Maybe we should go back to the others.” He stood up, shaking sand off his pants.

Nadine was looking at the water wistfully. “I miss the way things were.”

“Me too.” They shared miserable smiles and started back to the other side of the island. 

Asher was kneeling in the dirt patch, surrounded by bucketsful of vegetables that he’d been growing. 

Wyatt was helping him, harvesting with deft, practiced hands, loading the buckets and chattering about a theory he had about the weather. 

Asher was close to a burn out, Stiles could tell; he was pale and sweaty, hair curling against his temples, red spots high on his cheeks as his breath huffed noisily. 

Boyd was staring down at his book, so Stiles went to sit with him. He looked up briefly, noticed the blood, and scowled. “What happened?”

“Just a little cut.” He waved his arm, which had stopped bleeding and was now just smeared. “What’re you writing?”

Boyd tilted the book toward him. “It’s just in case…Not everyone can see the dead and…I would want to know.”

The page was filled with names and birthdates, with brief descriptions of the person. The book was bursting with pages. 

“Oh. That’s…”

“Morbid.”

“Kind,” Stiles shot back. “You’re right. I would want to know, too. And you’re not the only one who wants to write stuff down.” Boyd lifted his brows, so Stiles explained, “I’ve been wanting to write down all the animals we come across, their mutations, their powers, how to defend yourself against them. I think it’d be useful to everyone.”

Boyd nodded. “It would be. Maybe we can find you one of these.” He closed his book around his pen and sealed it by wrapping a leather string around it twice and tying it by the spine.

“Yeah,” Stiles snorted, “that’d be nice.” After he left the boat, he wouldn’t have time to catalogue anything, even if it did sound fun.

A shadow blocked out the sun for a moment. Ripley landed hard in the sand. He wobbled, wings outstretched and awkward, then caught his balance. He pulled himself out of the shallow trench he’d made with his landing and folded his wings in, then made his way to Asher. “I think that’s enough.” His voice was quiet, but Asher relaxed when he heard it.

He pulled his hands out of the dirt and sat back on his heels, observing the bell peppers he’d just sprouted. “I figured we could use the vitamin C,” he mumbled. 

Wyatt dutifully plucked them and added them to a bucket bursting with artichokes, tomatoes, and beets. 

Ripley tugged on Asher’s arm. “Come on, rest, relax. They’re still fishing.”

Asher glanced at the buckets, then let Ripley pull him away. They leaned on a tree together and after a moment, Asher’s head tipped on to Ripley’s shoulder, eyes closing. 

Stiles stood up. “Be right back,” he mumbled to Boyd, and stumbled to the beach. He and Derek _barely_ knew each other, he had no reason to miss him like this. He glanced back, saw Ripley tangle his fingers with Asher’s, and turned to the ocean. He turned the rock over in his hands and reached out with his mind.

Lydia was tense, no surprise, and John was frustrated, likely at the fishing. 

He felt at the silver connections, the ones that shouldn’t be there, the ones that were strong and bright and unwavering. 

Laura was highly stressed; she couldn’t concentrate because of it, she was afraid of something that seemed to be looming over her, ready to crash down on her head any moment, take her down when she was distracted. 

Stiles clenched his hands.

Derek felt disturbingly subdued, defeated, like he’d been muted and was just going through the motions. He was vaguely worried about Laura, but even that only cropped up in dull waves. 

Stiles bit down hard on his lip and squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he could see them. If he could see them, maybe he could figure out how to fix this. 

Peter…Peter felt trapped, as if someone had shoved him into a cage and any second, he’d hear the resounding click of the lock. 

Stiles pulled his hands through his hair. He wished he could help them, wished he was there, could see them outside of his dreams. 

There was a faint stirring, like another bond flickering to life, but he couldn’t quite grasp it, couldn’t make out who it was. Scott, Erica, Danny? Jackson? He tried, but he couldn’t reach it, couldn’t force it clearer, no matter how he stretched his senses out. He clenched his hands and _reached_ , and the connection faded like smoke.

Once they were back on the boat, Lydia, Stiles, Wyatt, and Asher took over a corner of the galley to make potions—chopping, grinding, mixing, boiling. It was soothing and familiar, to Stiles’s surprise, despite how crowded it felt sharing the duties. 

Wyatt and Asher went to boil some kelp into a liquid, leaving Stiles and Lydia at the table, grinding and peeling respectively. 

“What happened to your arm?” she asked. 

Stiles glanced at it automatically. “A mermaid cut me and gave me a special rock.” 

She nodded, then set her knife down. “You know we will follow you anywhere, right? We love this crew, they’ve been our family for a few years, but you, Dad, Erica, Scott, Danny, and J-Jackson…you’re our family, too.” 

He kept his eyes on the mortar in front of him, the glowing blue paste he was making. “That’s not what I’m worried about.” He twisted the pestle in his hands. “It’s dangerous to be around me.”

“Don’t you think we know that? Witches are coveted, and you’re dangerous.” She set her knife down and stood up. “Just…remember that we’re with you. I’m going to help unload the fish,” she muttered, and stalked out of the room. 

Stiles grimaced; he’d caught a glimpse of the fish. They were odd and mutated, but edible, according to the crew who’d been living off of them for several years. He got up to add his paste to Asher’s mixtures and to help divvy up the finished ones. He could feel what they were for as he filled the jars: some were explosive, others shields, smoke cover, light, camouflage, a wide array of attack and defensive potions pulled from the odd plants they’d found. “Bracing for an attack?”

Asher glanced up at him. “Yes.”

“Good.”


	14. Chapter 14

Stiles woke up stiff and sore, curled in a tight ball under his blanket. He rubbed his eyes and flexed his legs, his arms, before he rolled out of bed. It was still dark in their room—no window—but he had plenty of practice stumbling his way to the door: he rarely ever ran into anything anymore. He grabbed his backpack and shuffled into the hall, turning sharply into the bathroom. He was going to miss the shower when he left the ship, maybe not the most, but it was pretty high on the list. He flicked his fingers at the candles stuck on the walls and waited while the room warmed up, hugging his arms around himself to conserve some heat. 

He bounced on his toes and cursed before he started taking his clothes off, muttering to himself about the cold metal floors. _It’s better than bathing in a stream,_ he reminded himself, because at the very least, he wasn’t running the risk of getting eaten by mutant fish.

The water sputtered before it came on, the bolted on shower head shuddering on the wall. One day it was probably going to fall on someone. He bounced from foot to foot, psyching himself up, then ducked his head under the water. He hissed between his clenched teeth, shivering, and got to scrubbing. The water was only warm when Ari heated it, and she only remembered when someone asked. 

Once he was done, he pulled his clothes on wet, cursing as his pants clung to his legs, then put the candles out. He dragged himself out to the hallway and sat down to pull his boots on. The floor was cold against his ass, through his jeans, so he fumbled the laces of his boots a bit in his hurry. 

Someone started yelling from the top deck, just loud enough that he could hear, but not enough that he could make out what they were saying. 

He stopped, tilting his head to listen better. A chicken squawked and claws tapped across the deck.

Jamel noticed him as he was leaving his own room. “You alright?”

He nodded and gestured at the stairs, brows furrowing.

“Ah. It’s just Ripley and Ari.”

He frowned. “What’re they arguing about?”

Jamel shook his head, then held up a finger to listen. He was wearing loose, soft black pants and a gray shirt, like he’d been sleeping. Maybe he had been; he looked groggy. 

“Are _you_ okay?” Stiles asked. 

He glanced at him. “Yes. I didn’t sleep well. Wyatt has nightmares sometimes,” he added under his breath. 

“Oh.”

“Ari wants to check out the city we’re getting close to, and Ripley thinks we should bypass it, since it isn’t on the map.”

Stiles perked up. “What map?”

He winced. “Nadine has been trying to create a new map using old maps and our constant movement.” He leaned a shoulder against the wall. “It’s imperfect, given all the earthquakes and land shifts after the bombs, but she’s trying.” He looked toward Nadine and Rosalva’s closed door. “There aren’t exactly landmarks or navigating systems anymore, just the stars, which she doesn’t exactly have training to read.” 

“Yeah.”

“We’ll go past islands one day and they’re gone the next, cities go underwater, the landscape changes. It’s a mess, but she thinks she can make sense of it.” 

It gave her a purpose. Stiles couldn’t help thinking of Laura, and had to look away. Laura had needed something to give her purpose, too, desperately. 

“I’m going to go up and try to quiet them down.” Jamel squared his shoulders.

Stiles stood. “I’ll help.” Anything to distract himself. He threw his bag on his bed and shut the door again before following Jamel up.

Ari wasn’t so much yelling as passionately making her point in a loud voice.

Ripley didn’t look impressed. “It isn’t on the map, we have no idea what could be in there.” His hair was flattened on one side, like he’d just woken up.

Ari looked wide awake and way less scaly than she’d been in a while, her habitual curling smirk in place. “Aren’t we explorers? The only way to know is to go in and check.” 

“You mean, for _you_ to go in and check.”

She shrugged. “I’m a little harder to kill than most of you.”

He rolled his eyes. “Bullshit! You’re being impulsive, you’re the one who made the map rule.”

“What map rule?” Stiles blurted. 

Ripley glanced at him. “The rule that says if we find a new place, we add it to the map. If we see it twice more, _then_ we explore it. Cities sink too often to just go in whenever.”

“That was when Mad Hollow was still standing,” Ari shot back. 

“What supplies do we even _need_ , Ari? We’ve got enough.” 

“For right now. What happens if we run out of something in the middle of nothing and can’t find anywhere to get it?”

One of the chickens squawked and bobbed between them.

Ari snickered.

Stiles looked at Jamel.

He shook his head. “People are sleeping, guys. Can you lower the volume?”

Ripley looked annoyed.

“Yeah, we’ll quiet down.” She patted at the sheep as it trailed after the chickens. “I think we need to gather supplies while we can, when we can.” 

“And I agree,” Ripley said through his teeth, “but we need to be safe about it.”

Ari opened her mouth to reply, but Nadine popped out of the room on the platform.

“The city _is_ on the map,” she declared, holding up some papers.

Beside him, Jamel shuffled his feet, looking embarrassed. 

Ari’s grin was victorious.

“It was flooded before, remember? Jamel and Asher swam down to it to get a look.”

Ripley’s glower shifted to Jamel, making him hold his hands up.

“Oh, yeah.” Ari looked over the port side, her expression going thoughtful.

Stiles followed her gaze and caught his breath. 

The buildings were draped in heavy seaweed, gleaming with algae of all colors, the stone discolored, signs faded, everything tinted faintly blue-green as if it was still underwater. Gray coral had grown on some of the buildings, visible even from a distance. 

Ari’s eyes narrowed. “I think we should still check it out. Maybe it won’t have any food, clothes, or first aid, but it might have weapons, and we can always use those.”

Ripley rubbed his eyes. “We _are_ weapons.”

Her face set with disapproval. “Some of us can’t project our powers away from ourselves.” She looked at Jamel.

He crossed his arms.

Ripley shook his head. “Whatever, do what you want.” He went to the stairs, muttered an “excuse me”, and slid by. 

Ari shook herself and straightened her shoulders. “Well, the city is still pretty flooded, so we’ll be able to take the ship close,” she chirped. “Jamel, do you mind getting people up? Whoever wants to come is welcome.”

He nodded. 

Stiles went down with him; he wanted to get Lydia and Boyd himself. 

Lydia answered the door when he knocked, her hair tangled around her face, jaw clenched, eyes wide. 

“We’re getting close to a city,” he said, frowning at the expression on her face.

She grimaced. “Right.”

“How does that work, exactly?” He followed when she waved him in, shutting the door behind him.

“Unexpected bodies generally make me scream or—feel the urge. I’m getting better at fighting it. Um, if someone dies close to me, same thing.” She scowled. “I hate it, because it tries to _wrench_ out of me, like some invisible _something_ is pulling my mouth open.”

“I’m sorry.”

She collapsed onto her bed and pouted at him from behind her tangled hair. 

Across the room, Boyd grumbled and lurched out of his blanket nest, stumbling into the hallway. 

“Ari wants to explore the city for supplies and I want to go with.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

“So I can look for weapons. Magic, maybe first aid. I want to build up my supplies before…”

She pressed her lips together, rubbing her palms across her blankets. “I see. Well, I’ll come with, too. You’ve seen what my scream can do. It’s not the _most_ useful power, but it’s good for scaring off some creatures, scattering energy. Plus, I’m pretty good with a knife now.”

He nodded. “Alright. But we have to convince Dad to stay on the ship.”

“I think I can talk him into helping Alden debone the fish.” Her nose wrinkled.

“Thank you.”

She got dressed while Stiles told Boyd about the city, then went to tell John while they were still discussing it. 

“I just think having extra stuff wouldn’t be a bad thing.”

“Yeah, but this place was flooded for who knows how long. How would anything still be useful?”

“It’s possible,” Stiles insisted. “If it’s been flooded, maybe no one else has gotten to search it, which means—” 

“That everything in it has been underwater for years?”

“Some things are air locked or vacuum sealed. Maybe they made it.”

Boyd shook his head. “You know I’m coming with, now go so I can get dressed.” 

Stiles grinned and backed into the hallway; he nearly knocked into Wyatt, who was tangled in a shirt. He helped him get his arms through.

“Thanks,” he chirped. He had shadows under his eyes and the scars on his face stood out given how pale he was, but he still smiled at Stiles. “Are you coming with?”

“Yep…you?”

“Yes. See you up there,” he added, continuing down the hall.

Stiles watched him go. He wasn’t that much older than Wyatt, technically, but he was still sort of surprised by how often the crew let him go to dangerous places. Then again, none of them were his parents, though he was pretty sure Jamel and Alden had practically raised him. He guessed he was fine, and had survived the apocalypse as an eight-year-old. Stiles needed to worry about his own people, probably. 

Ari docked the ship at a fallen six story building only half covered in water. Nadine, Alden, John, and Rosalva would be staying aboard while the rest split in groups of three to search for supplies. 

Stiles glanced back at John, whose arms were crossed to express his disapproval in the three of them.

Lydia waved at him and he cracked slightly, but it was Boyd’s big grin that had him sighing and waving back, even quirking a small smile.

“Kiss ass,” Stiles muttered and Boyd shoved him off the last two steps of the ladder. He landed on his feet and slipped, nearly falling through one of the building’s broken windows.

Lise caught his arm and pulled him to safety.

“Thanks.”

“No problem. You got a weapon on you?” she asked.

He took his knife out. “Plus my magic.”

She looked pained. “Alright. Lydia, Boyd? Armed?”

“Yep.” Lydia patted the sheaths at both of her hips, and Boyd pointed at his own.

Lise pulled a machete off her back. “Here, take something bigger, just in case,” she added grumpily. “I gave one to Ripley, too.” 

Boyd took it, holding the handle gingerly. “Uh…thanks.”

She nodded and caught up to Wyatt and Jamel, her group.

Ari, Ripley, and Asher made up the final group. “Look,” Ari began, “we’re just taking a look around. Lise, head north, we’ll go east, and Lydia, take them west. Meet back here at sunset, we’ll wait until sunrise to set sail if anyone doesn’t show up.” She looked over them until they nodded. “Try not to die,” she added, and set off down the building. It was pitted and cracked, uneven, but she still walked with a confidence that Stiles couldn’t replicate. 

Lydia took deep breaths as they made their way down the building they were using as a bridge. She shuddered as they passed over a broken window.

Boyd’s gaze was sweeping the air in front of them, searching. “No ghosts,” he mumbled. “At least, none that want to talk.”

“Good.” She rubbed her arms. “There’s bodies, though.”

He nodded. 

Stiles jumped down first, splashing into knee deep water. He moved so Boyd could jump down, and they both helped Lydia down; the water was at her waist. 

She scowled, holding her arms up. “Awesome.”

Stiles just hoped nothing in the water wanted to eat them. He looked around and spotted a car half out of the water. “You think it’s still explosive?”

Lydia shrugged. “Water currents should’ve set it off already.”

Stiles flicked his fingers at it, a telekinetic shove, but all it did was rock onto two wheels and fall back. “Maybe we can use stuff to stay out of the water.” He chewed the inside of his cheek and ran his fingers through the water thoughtfully.

The mark on his arm tingled.

“Ah, damn.” He waded over to the car, gesturing at Lydia and Boyd to follow him. 

“What?” Lydia prodded his arm. “You have to tell us.”

“I’m gonna make us a path, so we don’t have to walk in the water, but we have to get out first, so I don’t freeze us.” 

Lydia grumbled, “Couldn’t you have thought of that _before_ we got in the water?”

“I didn’t know it was this deep!” He flushed because he _should_ have thought of it. “Sorry.” 

She squeezed his shoulder and ordered, “Help me onto the car.”

It was some kind of SUV with gray and yellow seaweed of some kind growing in it, the top and sides were smooth and slick, hard to climb. Once they were up, Lydia flicked seaweed off her legs, shooting Stiles a dirty look.

He rolled his eyes and looked at the water, imagining the path he wanted to freeze. He wasn’t great at long, precise bits of ice, but he could do this. Probably. He took a shallow breath and put his left hand out, fingers spread wide. 

The water made that crackly noise he associated with extreme cold before white-blue ice spread over the surface. There was a beat where it barely moved, just thickened, and Stiles flexed his fingers, annoyed, and then the ice shot out and forward, exploding unevenly. It went west, but it had random branches and strange twisting shapes, though thankfully it was flat enough to walk on.

Boyd looked impressed at least, even if Lydia was judging the uneven path. “Ugh,” she muttered, climbing off the car. “There’s so many bodies.”

Boyd nodded.

Stiles curled his fingers and dropped balls of light in the water over the side of the ice, lighting the gray water. 

“ _Ugh_.” She shuddered and backed away. 

There were bodies under the surface, gray and decayed from the water. They were mostly slimy-looking skeletons, but it was still disgusting. And obviously difficult for Lydia. He clenched his hand, extinguishing the lights. 

“That doesn’t help,” she muttered. She pulled her shoulders back. “Okay, I’ve got it, I’m fine. Let’s go.” 

The ice was thick and hard on top, thankfully not slick, so they weren’t struggling to keep their balance while they walked. 

“This one?” Boyd gestured at what looked like a broken up Kroger. Only the E was left, but the dents where the other letters used to be were overflowing with pink algae that gave off violent magical hums that Stiles recognized as poison.

“Uh, sure, but don’t touch any of the pink algae.” 

They used one of the uneven branches of his ice path as close as they could to the broken doors. They had to wade in past that, but it wasn’t any deeper than their shins.

“This is so creepy,” Stiles muttered. The whole place stank of rotting fish and underwater foliage, and it was frigid, cold enough that Stiles could faintly see his breath. 

“Stores are always creepy when they’re empty.” Boyd looked over toppled, gunked up shelves. “We’re not going to find anything in here.”

Lydia shook blue seaweed off the toe of her boot. “Probably not, but it’s worth looking, and at least we can stretch our legs a little.”

“Yeah.” Stiles passed something that looked like a pile of damp rags that he refused to examine closer. 

“Ew.” Lydia peered under one of the toppled shelves. “Well, there’s the canned goods.” 

“Oh, gross.” All the cans had exploded, probably a while ago, turning the aisle into a disgusting, orange-brown chunky nightmare. 

Boyd turned away. “That’s nasty.”

“ _That_ looks like graduation night,” Lydia said, and laughed when both Stiles and Boyd gagged. 

The checkouts were all collapsed, and something yellow and spiny was growing out of one of the registers. The floor tiles were bulging and warped under the ankle-deep water, and the walls were caked with mold and algae in a myriad of colors. 

There were carts in a pile on their sides with strange, bone-like creatures crawling their way through them.

“Pharmacy is over here,” Boyd said after they all spent a moment watching the creatures in horrified silence. “Maybe there’s some first aid kits that survived.”

Lydia looked up at the ceiling, then back down. “Maybe we should go. One big gust might collapse this place.”

The ceiling was bowed under whatever had gathered on the roof after the water receded, dappled green and brown, dripping filthy water. Strings of twisted, thorny seaweed hung like the world’s slimiest party streamers, nearly long enough to touch their heads. 

“We’ll just check the pharmacy, then we can leave.” He looked over both of them.

Lydia pursed her lips but nodded. “Alright, fine.” 

Boyd led the way to what was once the pharmacy, now labeled Ph r a y.

Stiles slipped and threw his hands out, grabbing for one of the shelves. He missed and splashed to the floor with blue slimy stuff stuck to his hands. “Oh my god.”

Lydia pressed her lips together, clearly fighting laughter. “You see?”

He glowered at her as he got to his feet, wiping his hands on his pants.

Boyd darted between some shelves that’d fallen together and made an incomplete A shape, clattering and cursing. He reemerged before they could go after him with a grimy white box in his hands and spun it around to face them.

“Wow. Is it still sealed?”

“Yep.” He wiped the grime away with his arm, revealing the contents of the first aid kit.

“That might be the last one in the world,” Lydia observed. 

“It belongs in a museum.” Stiles looked at what he’d slipped in—a pile of red and gray goo. “Let’s get out of here.” 

Boyd put the kit in the empty backpack he’d brought. “Don’t you think we should check the meat department? I bet there’s some tools in there that’d be useful.”

“Yeah, and meat that’s been underwater for ten years.”

“It’ll have rotted to nothing by now,” Lydia pointed out. “But I’m guessing the mold will be toxic.”

“Alright, alright. No meat cleavers for us.” He wiped his hands on his pants. “Back out then?”

The path was still there; Stiles knew it wasn’t going to melt, but there was the possibility of something breaking it. The air outside was less humid than in the store, and warmer, which was a relief. 

“How far does it go?” Lydia thumped her boot against the ice to indicate what she was talking about.

Stiles shrugged. “Not sure. I just made it form.”

“Oh, great.”

“You can always get in the water if you have a problem with it.”

She stuck her tongue out at him; as they started walking, she tugged her hair loose and started retying it, scooping up all the tendrils that’d escaped. 

Stiles looked around. All of the buildings were pretty bad, most of them unrecognizable. Restaurants, gas stations, maybe a movie theater and a clothing store. Even if they weren’t destroyed by intense water damage, nothing would be very useful. A glance at Lydia and Boyd’s faces told him they were sure, too, but by silent agreement, they all kept walking.

“Hey.” Boyd nudged Stiles and pointed. 

Cutting across the path were brilliant, glowing red paw prints.

“What…?” He hurried over to them and followed the path onto one of the branching paths of ice. He pulled up short as he came face-to-face with a coyote.

Lydia inhaled sharply. 

The coyote snarled, fur fluffing up. When it shifted its stance, Stiles saw red paw prints under its feet. It lowered its head between its shoulders and snarled. An eye opened on its forehead between its two regular eyes. 

Stiles tripped backwards. 

“Don’t,” Boyd muttered. “You’ll call everyone else.” Telling Lydia not to scream.

Stiles flicked his fingers, spraying water up over the path and at the coyote. 

It yelped and turned tail, scampering away. “Well, that could’ve gone wors— _ow!_ ” 

Lydia smacked his arm again. “Why would you follow random paw prints? Haven’t you been around long enough to know that’s a bad idea?!”

“To see what it _was,_ obviously. They were glowing!”

“Let’s go before you find something else to play with,” she grumbled, sweeping past him. If he had to bury his face in his hands to keep from laughing when she stumbled, well, at least she didn’t see.

Boyd did, and manfully swallowed his own laughter. 

The path began to slope the further they walked, as the water level became lower. The temperature was rising, too, as the sun moved toward midday. 

The path ended in a little ramp shape into the ankle-deep water that was no more transparent than the deeper parts. Decaying trash and sea plants drifted along the surface, a water bottle, a chip bag with no paint left, some kind of shiny plant that Stiles couldn’t identify. 

Lydia crossed her arms as they walked on. “If we didn’t see anything useful back there, what’re we going to find over here?”

They were leaving the restaurants and stores behind, entering what was probably a side street into tall apartments with a McDonalds crumbled between two of the buildings. 

“Probably nothing, but maybe someone was a gun nut with a waterproof safe.”

“That’d cheer Lise up,” Boyd muttered. 

Lydia rolled her eyes. “The odds that the guns or ammo made it this long-” 

“Are slim, but like you said, at least we’re stretching our legs.” Stiles covered the mark and scattered the tracking magic, rubbing his palm unconsciously against the scabbed over cuts. He still had the rock the mermaid had given him, tossed in his bag in case it was useful or tradeable, but he still didn’t understand why she gave it to him.

Nadine was sure it was just a nice gesture, that the mermaid had just liked him, because apparently they gave things to people they liked, like ravens, but Stiles wasn’t sure. 

Lydia kicked something under the water and cursed, bending to grab it. It was too big for her to lift completely, but she managed to tilt it so they could see it. A warped green sign with “—c st, City L mit, Pop. 2 12” smudged on it. She frowned at the smeared words. “I wonder where we are.”

“North America, probably. Those look like our road signs.”

She nodded, frowning thoughtfully, still holding the sign that was almost bigger than she was. She dragged it to one of the apartment buildings and propped it on the side. “Just in case someone needs another town sign.”

“Sap,” Stiles teased. 

Boyd started to speak.

Something chittered with panic, high, squeaky notes, and about twelve wet, winged squirrels flew by, whapping Stiles on the head and shoulder, Boyd on the face. 

“What the hell, why-” He turned and froze. 

Lydia’s breath caught, but Boyd just silently lifted the machete Lise had given him.

An alligator stood at the sloped end of Stiles’s ice path, watching them with bright orange eyes. The bombs had done…something to it, turning its rounded snout dipped and almost shaped like a shovel. As it flexed its claws in the ice, light slid between its scales, which had gone flat gray and stone-like. Its long, powerful tail lay across the ice and into the water, ridged with sharp, gold spines. 

“Get ready to run,” Stiles muttered. “I dunno if my magic can get past its armor.”

“Why don’t you just shield us all?” Lydia hissed. 

“That only works if it will lose interest.” The way it was watching them, intense and intelligent, suggested it wouldn’t.

“They’re opportunistic hunters,” Lydia insisted. “They don’t like to waste energy on one prey when another is easier.”

“They _were_. We don’t know what they’re like now,” Boyd mumbled. 

“And what else is it going to hunt? We’re the only living prey around as far as I can tell, and a lot easier to catch than flying squirrels or coyotes.”

Lydia’s brows pulled down and she backed up a step.

The alligator opened its mouth and hissed, tail swaying gently. 

She froze. “I still think a shield…until we have a better plan…” 

Stiles swallowed and nodded. “You’re right. Um, sorry,” he added. He flung a shield around the two of them and bolted left, watching as the gator tracked him.

Lydia swore at him. “ _Mieczysław Stilinski, you let us out NOW!_ ”

He ignored her; the alligator was definitely interested in him now, but apparently unwilling to move yet. 

Boyd struck the shield with his machete. 

It was a containment shield, meant to keep things out and in, and Stiles winced as the metal clanged against it. He darted toward the alligator, then backed away, twice, trying to entice it to chase him. 

Its tail lashed, annoyed, but it didn’t give chase. Stiles flicked his fingers, throwing water at it, but it only blinked at him. He mouthed a curse and hurled a mild blast at it.

The spell crackled over its armor, rocking it on its feet. Its eyes glowed and the light between its scales brightened, right before it charged him.

“Oh, shit, oh shit, oh shit,” he gasped, darting left between apartments. He stumbled over a chunk of cement and heard the gator’s claws scrape behind him. His heart lurched with panic. He ran faster, heaving for breath and hoping he didn’t pass out.

Lydia _screamed_ , all consuming and furious, and the shield shattered. 

Stiles flinched as it collapsed, like a piece of his mind had been flicked. His feet tangled and he went down hard, scraping his palms and knees over the damp street. He flipped over and scrambled back, wheezing.

The alligator lunged, mouth wide. Its teeth scraped over his legs as he was yanking them in; it was probably the luckiest he’d ever gotten when its jaws snapped together on air rather than his bones. 

He gasped and threw his hands out on instinct. 

The boom rocked the ground; intense heat washed over him, sizzling the shallow water around him briefly. The air went hazy as a hole burned in the road, crumbling to smoky ash. Distantly, a building collapsed from the blast. 

The alligator clung to the edge of the crater nearest Stiles, its scales glowing red-orange like hot metal. The upper half of its body was still above the hole, but it was having trouble pulling its back legs and tail up.

Stiles scrambled back, still breathing heavily. 

Lydia and Boyd ran up to the far side of the crater; Lydia pulled a small, silver gun out from under her jacket, shocking the hell out of him, and took aim at the gator. 

Boyd set a hand on her wrist and said something quietly, his expression urgent.

She shook her head. 

The alligator opened its mouth wide and hissed, struggling to pull the rest of its body out of the crater. 

Stiles looked at Boyd and Lydia, then at the gator, and threw his hands up, palms facing in; he inhaled, slow, deep, and turned them out.

The alligator’s armor rippled, then exploded into dust, thick black ash that drifted lazily through the air.

Lydia’s mouth opened, gaze on the charred spot where the gator had been. “Could you always do that?”

Stiles couldn’t speak for a moment, swallowing down drunken, giddy laughter. He felt dizzy with power, his senses all tingling. “Yeah—or no, I’m not…I never would’ve had a reason to use it before.” He got to his feet and found his hands crackling with fire, up his wrists and between his fingers. 

“Right,” Boyd said slowly. “Well, maybe you should make a bridge or something and get over here.”

Stiles nodded, swaying in place. He shivered and turned, sensing. “Guys, run.” He moved his feet shoulder width apart and flexed his fingers one at a time. His senses were still on overdrive and he felt a threat, and-

-a low hiss.

Stiles spun, expecting to see another alligator or maybe the same one, reformed, but it was just Lydia and Boyd frowning at him. “Get _out_ of here,” he snapped.

The hissing grew louder and morphed into low laughter. 

Stiles threw a shield around them and turned again, scanning the building rubble around them.

A pale woman with a fall of honey colored hair stepped out of a broken window, soft leather boots gliding soundlessly between bricks and glass. She smiled, baring her long canines and her eyes glowed silver.

Stiles threw his hand out, but she moved; the blast collapsed the building she’d been in. He spun and punched his fist forward, but the spell missed her again.

“That only works when we’re not well fed,” she said, dancing out of the way. She darted in front of Stiles and curled her arm around both of his, pinning them to his chest. She smiled and dug her other hand into his hair; she was cold and strong, her arm like steel where it held his hands still. She jerked his head back, baring his throat. “Just relax,” she murmured, her lips brushing over his pounding pulse.

Lydia screamed with fury. 

Fangs pierced his throat and he felt like a tug, a rocking like a row boat. Then he collapsed.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3 I hope you enjoy!

Lydia was screaming. Usually that meant someone had spilled paint on her designer purse or milk on her shoes, but this time…Stiles felt the scream in his bones, felt it sink like a dagger into his sleeping mind and drag him to the surface. It cut through the haze of sleep and demanded he wake, pulled him out, up. _Have to,_ he thought it meant. _Have to wake up. Now._ He jerked and his eyes opened. The world was blurry and hazy but he knew…he was in cold water, sore and limp, tied up on the ground. 

He was laying on his side and his mouth was desert-dry. He lifted his cheek out of the water, wincing at the pain in his neck, deep and throbbing. His fingers were cold and stiff and his whole right side was soaked from laying in the water. 

There were people, he realized dazedly. He was foggy still, but he counted eleven. He dropped his head, exhausted, and tried blinking his vision clear. They were…vampires, maybe? They were shouting about territory…they wanted someone to leave. 

Stiles tried to look around again, even though his vision was still wavering and blurry. He saw Lydia through the legs of one of the vamps and lifted his head. His neck throbbed and he was too weak to push himself up; he remembered the vampire and grimaced. She must’ve taken more blood than he could handle. He flopped over onto his back, breathing hard and staring at the sky. 

Storm clouds were gathering above them. 

“Give us our witch back.” Ari’s voice cracked like a whip. 

“No! You have two, you don’t need him, and he came into our territory.” 

Thunder rumbled overhead and lightning flashed, the clouds darkening.

Stiles turned his head and felt his throat tighten.

Ari, Ripley, Lise, Lydia, Boyd, John—all gathered to try to rescue him. He struggled up to his knees and bent forward, using a burst of flame to free his hands from the ropes. He tipped over, breathing hard and trembling. The world seemed to revolve strangely, the wet asphalt tilting up to meet him.

“Come and get him, then,” the vampire taunted. 

Thunder boomed. 

Stiles slipped down to his side again, trying and failing to make the world stop pitching and jerking. He fumbled for the rope around his ankles, his fingers numb and clumsy. He couldn’t get at the knot and felt his face flushing, vision pulsing in and out. He shook his head, still panting, and gave up, incinerating them instead. His hands dropped into the water. He laid there for a moment, his body deadened by exhaustion. 

“How about you hand him over and this doesn’t end in a fight?” Ari suggested. 

“Oh, we can handle a fight, princess.”

Stiles opened his eyes and watched the clouds overhead as they wheeled in a most un-cloud-like way. He squeezed his eyes shut again, worried he’d get sick.

“There are more of us than there are of you,” Ari boasted. “We’re already surrounding you.”

“She’s bluffing,” one of the other vampires muttered. 

Stiles opened his eyes again, focusing on his gaze on their legs, their brown leather boots. 

“Then we kill them and take _all_ of their witches.” They started to move, their leg muscles tensing.

Stiles flung his left arm forward, drunkenly blasting them. 

They toppled like bowling pins, knocked around but mostly unharmed—except one, who’d taken the spell directly to the chest. He died. 

Stiles shuddered at the surge of power and sat up, blinking as if he’d come out of a deep sleep. He flexed his fingers as the pulse of strength warmed them. His magic glowed inside, rising up like a flood. He looked at the vampires as they picked themselves up, shouting about how Marcus was supposed to be watching him.

He looked at his crew and licked his lips nervously; they were closer than he’d realized, and moving even nearer as the vampires converged on Stiles. He didn’t want them to get hurt. He struggled to stay on his knees and flipped a hand weakly at them; the shield formed, then collapsed. His magic was battle ready but it couldn’t heal what the vampire had done, couldn’t strengthen him enough to get him on his feet. He inhaled harshly and flung his hand out again, fingers curled in like an “e”, and the shield bloomed around them. 

Lydia looked furious. 

A vampire clamped a hand on Stiles’s shoulder, nails digging through the layers of his jacket and shirts. Another stood in front of him, hands on her hips as she tsked at him. The only part of her face he could see was the gleam of her fangs. A third joined them, then a fourth, crowding around him like piranhas about to start a feeding frenzy. 

He braced a hand on the ground and lifted the other, thrusting his palm in the air. 

The blast cracked like lightning, killing three of the vampires and knocking the others to the ground again.

Stiles stood as his magic roared; the world spun around him, but he scanned the felled vampires until he spotted the one who’d taken his blood. Her honey-colored hair was spread out around her on the ground where she’d fallen.

The shield around the others collapsed but he didn’t care; he stalked the vampire, whose leg looked broken.

She dragged herself backward, watching him with gleaming eyes, life force glowing with the blood she’d stolen from him. She bared her teeth and said something.

Stiles was too dizzy to understand; he pitched forward onto his knees and struck out. He caught her ankle and held on, squeezing tight. He shoved magic from his hand to her, fire, heat, death, all the power he’d absorbed from the other four.

She burst into flames and burned to ash from the inside out.

Stiles fell sideways and closed his eyes. 

He woke in a bed on the boat, recognizing the gentle rocking motion that he’d gotten used to without realizing it. His eyes fluttered, too heavy to open. He could see light pressing against his eyelids, so he probably wasn’t in his and John’s room. His hands crept up, rubbing at the thin, soft blanket covering him, then the mattress itself. The room smelled faintly _green_ , like damp grass and trees. He set his jaw and pried his eyes open, unsurprised when the light from the window made them burn and blur.

“ _Ugh._ ” He licked his lips, but his tongue felt like sandpaper and made his lips sting. His head throbbed as his vision cleared enough to see pale green curtains draped around the bed across from him, dried flowers piled on the pillows. 

Rosalva and Nadine’s room, then. His whole body hurt. He couldn’t find the energy to turn his head, let alone sit up, but he wanted to make sure everyone was okay. Had John actually been there? He’d woken briefly after passing out the second time to gunfire, but Lise had guns, too, and apparently so did Lydia. He grimaced, closing his eyes. No, John had definitely been there. He just didn’t understand _why._ Why had they taken time to go back to get John? Lise, Wyatt, Jamel, Ari, Asher, and Ripley had been in the city already, all of them armed and most with powers they could use in a fight. Had John come ashore alone? That was normally Stiles’s thing, pretending to be agreeable and then later sneaking to do what he thought was best. John normally did what he wanted if he couldn’t be argued out of it.

So they must’ve gone back for him. Why? And was he okay? Stiles didn’t remember much during the gunfire, just enraged vampiric hissing, gunshots, and being too weak to really open his eyes. 

Asher hadn’t been there, or Wyatt, or Jamel. Stiles’s eyes opened. How long had the vampires had him? His hands spasmed on the blanket, clenching it in his fists. That was why. They’d had to search for him, the vampires had taken him somewhere, and they’d needed help finding him.

He turned his head, ashamed, and spotted a cup of water on the table next to the bed. He gasped aloud and grabbed it, his hands shaking so hard he almost dropped it. With an enormous effort, he sat himself up and tipped the glass against his parched mouth. He choked as it hit his dry throat, but instinct had him in its grasp and he couldn’t stop drinking if he wanted to. Once the cup was empty, he let it thump against the mattress, panting and exhausted. Now that his thirst had been sated, he felt strange and floaty again, collapsed awkwardly against the pillows. He blinked drowsily once, twice, realized the light in the room had shifted, blinked again. 

The door opened slowly, so slow he wondered for a few seconds if it just hadn’t been secured properly and was opening due to the motions of the boat, and then Nadine stepped in. Her hair was tangled around her face like Halloween cobwebs. 

She shuffled in awkwardly, like her legs didn’t want to bend properly. 

Stiles struggled to sit up, worry and guilt clenching in his gut. Had she gotten hurt trying to help him? He didn’t remember her there, but he’d barely been conscious, so maybe he missed her. “Are you-”

Nadine leaped from the middle of the room to the bed, landing hard on his stomach and pinning him down. Her hair fell like a white curtain around them and her face was utterly blank, her eyes tinted blue with ice spreading from the corners and around them like a mask. She bared her teeth and pressed her knees hard into his ribs, winding him. Her touch was freezing, even where his shirt was covering him; the ice on her face was spreading, down her cheeks and toward her mouth. Her hand clenched on his chest, nails scraping his skin.

Stiles tried to push her off, but he was still too weak to sit up straight, let alone lift her full weight off of him.

She put her face close to his. “I’m going to kill them all,” she whispered harshly. “I can’t find you, but I don’t need to. The elves are connected,” she growled. “Once she stepped foot on land, I could reach her.” Something cold like metal pressed to his throat. 

Stiles bared his teeth. “You’re not going to kill me with a puppet, Della,” he snarled. “Won’t get my powers that way.”

Nadine flinched when he said Della’s name.

He lunged up with all of his strength, knocking her off his chest and making something burn on his arm. He threw his right hand up, flinging her across the room. 

She slammed into the far wall and Stiles toppled over the edge of the bed in a heap.

He looked at his arm as it throbbed and saw that she’d cut his right forearm as she’d moved, leaving a curved gash. 

Asher ran in, wide eyed. “What hap-”

Stiles shook his head, panting, and pointed at Nadine. 

She’d gotten to her knees, bloody knife in hand, and was struggling to untangle herself from the curtains around her bed. The ice covered her eyes completely, like a blindfold. 

“Nadine,” Asher gasped. He stood in front of Stiles, hands lifted. 

Stiles, exhausted, had to flop down, cradling his injured arm to his chest. The world turned sideways while he watched as Asher tried to take the knife from Nadine. 

She struggled, not to get past him but to stab him, blade flashing. The ice over her eyes looked odd, like a sleep mask studded with diamonds that glittered as she moved. The blade glanced off Asher’s jacket. 

Stiles grunted and jerked his head. 

Nadine slammed against the wall again, the knife flying out of her hand.

Asher lunged. He pressed a hand to her face. 

She slumped to the bed, body limp, breath deep and even. 

“Thanks. Here.” Asher hurried over. “Let me help.” He managed to heave Stiles back to the bed. “I’ll untangle her in a second, don’t worry. God, jeeze, we need Rosalva.” He used the blanket to stop the bleeding on Stiles’s arm. “What happened?”

“She was being controlled,” Stiles mumbled. “Della used another elf to reach Nadine when she was on land. She was gonna kill everyone.” 

Asher nodded. “Okay, don’t move, I’ll be really quick.” He left before Stiles could answer anyway. 

He looked over at Nadine warily, but she was still sleeping and he was too exhausted to muster up real fear anyway. 

The ice on her face had cracked, most likely from slamming into the wall. 

Stiles hoped Della had felt every hit.

Rosalva hurried in before Asher, carrying a rusty folding stool and a plastic tub of medical supplies. She gave Stiles a crooked smile. “You’re just having all the luck lately, huh?”

He managed to smirk back. “Yeah, that’s me. Next I’m gonna try taking bets.” 

Asher stepped to Nadine’s bedside, brows furrowed as he studied her. 

Stiles shivered when his magic bounced around the room.

“Sorry,” he muttered, preoccupied. “She’s really in there and trying to keep _me_ out.” He tried again, his magic resonating like an echo. 

Stiles glanced down, then away. 

Rosalva murmured an apology as she cleaned his arm. “I’m going to have to stitch it up.” She raised her voice. “Alden, I need your help!”

Stiles winced. “Why?”

“I don’t have anything to numb it.” She squeezed his wrist gently.

He nodded and looked away again, watching Asher instead. 

He’d bent closer to Nadine, sparking psychic spells and magic to free her from Della’s control.

Stiles was still pretty weak but he peeked anyway, curious. His magic brushed up against Asher’s; he knew just enough psychic magic to feel the icy grip Della had on Nadine’s mind, to feel the way Asher was breaking it apart, chipping it away. Stiles tried to help, blowing heat at the ice shards, but even at his best, he couldn’t do delicate psychic work.

Rosalva gasped and leaped up to put out the fire that’d started on the dried leaves Nadine collected. 

Stiles pulled it in. “Sorry,” he whispered, wincing.

Alden came in, scented turmoil and blood, and rushed to Stiles. “What happened? Are you okay? Is-” He frowned at Nadine and Asher. 

“There was some magic involved,” Rosalva said. “Can you leech the pain away from his arm while I sew? It needs stitches.”

“Of course.” He sat on the bed and carefully took Stiles’s hand.

The pain from the gash faded almost instantly.

Rosalva nodded, satisfied, and bent over. 

Stiles looked at Alden quickly. “Is my dad okay? I remember seeing him…”

“He’s fine. Worried about you, but we all were.”

Stiles flushed. “You guys should’ve left me behind. They wouldn’t have killed me and once I got my strength back, I could’ve taken them.”

Alden shook his head. “Ari’s bluffing. She would never leave anyone behind before doing a thorough rescue search.” 

Stiles scowled. “But I could’ve-”

“No, you couldn’t,” Rosalva said, muffled from being bent over his arm. “They’d keep you alive but too weak to fight long enough to let Stockholm set in. It’s what they do with witches powerful enough to fight back.”

“How do you know that?”

Alden grimaced. “Some vamps tried it on Asher and some other witches a few years back. They all escaped, but only because they didn’t realize Asher knew psychic magic.”

Stiles glanced at Asher, but he was too tangled up in Nadine’s mind to have heard them. He found himself dazedly following along, too out of it to absorb the steps but hoping he’d remember for next time. 

“There.” Rosalva sat back, satisfied. “Alden, let go, make sure he can move his fingers.” 

“It wasn’t _that_ deep,” Stiles grumbled, but he wiggled what she asked of him anyway. 

“How are you feeling? Dizzy, nauseous, groggy?”

“Yes,” he grumbled, and almost missed her laugh. “But I can go to my bed now,” he added. “Sorry for getting blood on yours.”

She smiled again. “Not your fault. And, I’m sorry, but you’re stuck in here for now. We need the sunlight and window to keep an eye on you and now your stitches.”

He touched his neck and flinched. “Ow.”

“Yeah, the punctures are still healing. It was a deep bite,” she added with a glower. “Seriously frowned upon. We’re only supposed to take a little,” she added. “Those gluttons probably drained anyone who came close. Overfed brats.” 

Alden smiled a little. 

Rosalva stood. “Let me go get you some food and water, then you can go back to sleep.”

“Thanks,” he murmured, leaning against the wall. 

Alden patted his ankle and went with her as she left, probably to report his condition to John. 

Asher finished with Nadine a couple minutes later, jerking out of her mind with a deep sigh. “She’ll probably sleep for a few hours.” He glanced at Stiles, then back at her. “We’ll move her to the other cabin and have John take her bed while you’re resting up, that way no one is stressed.”

Stiles wanted to claim he’d be fine, but even knowing it hadn’t been her, really, he wouldn’t be able to sleep with her in the room. At least not until he saw for himself that she wasn’t being controlled any longer. “Okay,” he said aloud. “Thank you.”

Asher nodded. “She’ll appreciate it, too. The headache she’s going to wake up with won’t mix well with sunlight,” he explained. He stepped toward Stiles and pulled something out of his pocket. 

It was wrapped in smudgy newspaper, images long faded. As he unwrapped it, he said, “Wyatt, Ari, and I made this for you. I worked a spell into this, which Ari welded.” A gray-silver cuff tumbled into his palm, wide and covered in whorls and the sunburst mark of heavy duty spell work. “It’ll scatter the tracking magic on that, if it remains whole.” He nodded at Stiles’s left arm.

Stiles’s jaw dropped. “What? Really? How’d you do it?” he blurted, scrambling to the edge of the bed and nearly tumbling off again.

Asher hurried closer. “Careful! I practiced the spell you used to scatter it and combined it with a textile spell I’ve been working on. I needed Wyatt’s telekinesis to work it into the metal while Ari kept it malleable, then we shaped it. Here, try it.”

Stiles put it on; it was wide and weighty, covering the whole handprint. Once it was settled, he felt a burst of warmth as the tracking magic scattered on its own, without any thought or effort on his side. “Oh, god.” He slumped. “ _Thank_ you, this is—amazing.” He yawned and tried to force it away, annoyed at himself. “I’m really—sorry—really grateful.” 

Asher smiled slightly. “And exhausted. I understand. I’m just glad it helped give you some peace of mind.” He looked a little amused. “After you eat, try to get some sleep.”

He nodded, yawning fiercely enough that he couldn’t fight it off. 

Asher waved and headed out, promising to send someone to move Nadine soon.

Lydia came in as he was leaving, carrying a cup and a bowl. “You okay?” Her face was dangerously pale, her eyes glassy. 

“Yeah,” he rasped. His gaze wouldn’t lift from the cup.

She chuckled quietly and handed him the water. “I brought orange slices, too. Rosalva says you need sugar, since you lost quite a bit of blood.” 

He nodded, too busy guzzling water to answer verbally. 

“How’re you feeling?” She handed him the bowl when he finished the water. 

“Tired and sore,” he replied. He ate an orange slice and added, “Grumpy. I can’t believe I got jumped by a vampire. Lame.”

Her mouth twitched. “Yeah, lame. We were thinking the exact same thing.” She was lying, she’d been scared, she was _still_ scared and trying very hard to hide it. She brushed at her cheek and started to speak.

Boyd and John came in, both of them looking frantic in their own ways. 

Stiles guessed news of Nadine’s attack had spread. He patted the bed, encouraging them to join him; Boyd sat on his left and Lydia moved so John could sit on his right. “What happened after I passed out?”

“Which time?” Boyd asked, trying to smirk. “You fainted more than a Victorian maiden, you need to be more specific.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “The first time, after the gator.”

“Oh, that. We couldn’t get across to help you, so Lydia screamed to alert the others and I-” Boyd’s gaze dipped away. 

“You can tell him, son,” John said suddenly. “It’s the only way we were able to find him.”

Boyd nodded, his eyes still fixed on the floor. “I summoned a ghost to follow you while the vampire was taking you, then we went and got everyone else.” 

“We had to split in groups,” John added. “There were a lot of vampires.”

“Once we tracked them down, they didn’t want to give you up.” Lydia grimaced.

“You woke up for some of it, and that’s the only reason we were able to get close enough to actually rescue you. Those vampires were damn fast and ran every time we got close.”

“I remember waking up, kind of.”

Boyd shuddered. “You looked _dead._ When Lydia screamed, we all thought it was a death call.”

He shook his head. “It woke me up.” He blinked heavily, felt himself sagging. “Thanks,” he said, surprising himself. He’d meant to lecture them that they should’ve left him and saved themselves. “For coming to rescue me.”

“Of course,” Lydia said. “We always will.”

His head drooped, dipping and then settling on Boyd’s shoulder. He was still sort of awake, enough to hear them speaking over him, but he couldn’t make himself sit up or join the conversation. 

Someone gently tugged the bowl from his hands and set it with a clank on the table next to the bed. 

“—really close-”

“Yeah, I know. It’s like-”

Their voices faded in and out, a comforting, familiar white noise as Stiles slipped into dreams. 

_He was running, low to the ground, through thick, soaring trees, alone and scared. He had four legs and fur that caught and tore on bramble and thorns as he ran. He tumbled down a shallow ravine and yelped as his back leg twisted but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t or he’d be caught. He’d be dead. He scrambled up the muddy incline, digging huge, brown paws into the muck and hurling to the top. Den. Find a safe, dark den, hunker. Alone, alone, scared. Want a pack. No pack. There’s no one. Just you, and you’re a survivor, he told himself, and kept running. Who are you? he thought and felt a twang through himself and the person he dreamed of. Who are_ you _?_


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning for more intense gore in this chapter than the others! And Boyd getting to show off his powers... <3

Stiles sat down across from John at the table Alden and Wyatt had set up for lunch; it was sunny and breezy out, and it was the first meal Stiles had eaten out of bed in a couple days. 

John bit a carrot while maintaining eye contact, chewing deliberately slow.

Stiles took a bite of his fish—tasted like cod, looked like alien—and narrowed his eyes. 

John lifted a brow in response.

Stiles glowered. 

Lydia sat beside him with her own plate, hair tied neatly back. She had the same kind of fish Stiles had, surrounded by an eclectic mix of vegetables and some apple slices, which she generously split with Stiles. 

Boyd sat beside John and handed him a banana; fruit was harder for Asher to grow, so it was a treat when they had it, though Stiles had been granted special privileges on account of almost being drained of blood. 

He jerked his brows up.

John shrugged and shook his head, eating another carrot. 

Stiles huffed through his nose. He needed to find a way to get John to stay. He’d be safe here, with Lydia and Boyd to watch out for him. He glanced guiltily toward Lydia, then Boyd. He _knew_ they thought they were going with when he left. He fingered the cuff on his arm between bites, his mind turning over. Even with the cuff scattering the tracking signal for him, he felt…a certain dread, foreboding, and he knew Della was going to catch up to him eventually. 

Something warm brushed his leg, making him jump.

Lydia snickered and gave a piece of lettuce to the sheep, which must’ve shed its wool recently, because when Stiles checked under the table, it was only slightly fuzzy. 

Asher and Wyatt had been keeping the sheep and chickens away from the center of the deck during the day to ensure no one stepped on them, but the sheep was an escape artist and a glutton. 

Stiles looked at John and Boyd, trying to keep the grimace off his face. He didn’t want them to get hurt, and even though he knew Della was after Ari and Asher, too, she didn’t have a weird mental link with either of them the way she did with Stiles. 

But she _was_ after Asher, and had a grudge against him for his connection to the collective, and she’d gone after Ari through Mad Hollow. But wasn’t that because of Stiles and Asher?

So maybe they _wouldn’t_ be safer on the boat.

He rubbed his eyes and finished off his lunch in a daze, confused and frustrated. 

Should he stay with everyone? At least then, he could protect them, and it wasn’t like he was the only one she was after, it just felt like it. If they stuck together, he’d be able to protect the others if she did find him and he’d know if anything happened. 

She had a grudge against Asher, but she hungered for Stiles’s power; in all ten years, she hadn’t had anyone escape from her, which only heightened her appetite. If he could escape her, his power was even more desirable to her.

So would they be in more danger if he stayed or left? He rubbed his jaw. He didn’t know what to do. Until Mad Hollow, he’d been sure the answer was to go off by himself, but her attack left him torn. Would she follow him or just cut down everyone she met along the way _to_ him? 

He looked up and found three sets of eyes on him. “What?”

John ate the last of his fish. “Just wondering if you were done glaring at what’s left of your artichoke.”

Stiles glowered and shoved it in his mouth. “Happy?” he mumbled around it. He winced as he chewed; he’d never been a fan of artichoke, but wasting food that’d been magically, painstakingly grown to keep them fed would be ridiculous. 

Boyd laughed.

“Let me get that for you, son.” John gathered all of their plates and marched away with his arms full.

The sheep butted against Stiles’s leg under the table. 

He scratched absently at her ears, forgetting that she wasn’t a dog. 

She didn’t seem to mind, leaning into his touch and settling down.

“So, have you figured it out yet?” Lydia put her elbow on the table and propped her chin in her hand, all sharp, deliberate movements, the better to scowl at Stiles. 

“Figured what out?” he muttered. 

“How you’re planning to ditch us,” Boyd replied. “You’re not that hard to read. You’re just trying to figure out how to get Dad to stay while you go off on your own.” 

He flushed, caught, and tried to cover. “I just want to keep everyone safe. I don’t even know if going off on my own will help anyone.”

“It wouldn’t.” Lydia rolled her eyes. “You said she’s after Asher, and she clearly wants to take Ari on, too. What makes you think we’d be safer here without you?” 

“Because she can track me, and we’ve got this…this weird mental link happening. Plus, water confuses her.” 

“So you should stay.”

“Someone has to warn the southern settlement she’s gunning for them.”

Neither of them looked moved by his argument. “We should go together then.”

“But-” He bit at his cheek. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Lydia lifted a brow at Boyd, then swung her gaze back to Stiles. “Well, keep in mind that you don’t make _our_ decisions. You can tell us that you’re worried and that you don’t want us to come, but that’s it.”

“Yeah,” he mumbled. “I’m aware.”

Her face softened slightly. “We just want to-” The rest of her words were drowned by a long, deep rumble of thunder. 

Overhead, clouds began to gather, heavy and dark, rolling in from the west. 

“Ripley?” Asher called from somewhere behind Stiles. 

“Not me.”

Stiles turned in his seat; Asher had his hand on one of the chickens, crouched beside it while Ripley was up on the platform by the masts, watching the clouds. 

Ari wandered over to Ripley as he watched. She tilted her head back, watching the gathering clouds with narrowed eyes. 

The wind picked up as the clouds darkened, swaying the boat side to side; thunder rumbled again. 

Boyd stood. “We have to move everything that isn’t nailed down.”

“Everyone brace!” Ari barked out. “This is going to get rough.” 

Stiles and Lydia got up and started grabbing things, storing everything that could slide or hurt someone if the boat rocked too much. Nadine swept by with a chicken under each arm, murmuring to them as she took them down below decks. Stiles wasn’t sure where she could put them that was any safer than the top deck, but he wished her luck.

Asher caught Stiles before he could help Boyd move the table below decks. “Wyatt can help you. I need some magical assistance.”

Stiles shrugged and passed his end to Wyatt. “You thinking of a shield?”

“Yeah, something heavy duty for the wind, lightning, and the rain.” He chewed his lip, gaze moving warily up to the clouds.

“The waves,” Stiles added. “Hail.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was worried about.”

Stiles nodded. “I’ve got one in mind. Follow my lead?” When Asher nodded, he began the spell. The shield bloomed over the hull first and stretched as he pulled on it, expanding it over the rest of the ship like a fitted sheet.

Asher laughed a little at the comparison, then said, “But it’s accurate.” 

Stiles concentrated on covering every inch of the boat, Asher’s magic twisting with his. He hated weather shields. So finicky. 

The shield shimmered as it settled, then went invisible, revealing the sky again. The wind howled, swaying the boat as the clouds flashed with lightning. 

The water roiled beneath them, the waves growing larger and more violent until it splashed up against the shield.

Bone rattling thunder roared overhead; something red flashed and Stiles realized it was lightning a second later. 

“Holy…” John stood at the top of the stairs, staring up as green veins struck through the heavy clouds, and more thunder deafened them. 

“Everyone,” Ari started, then yelped as a violent wave knocked her off her feet. 

Ripley helped her up, snickering. “What were you saying?”

“Brace yourselves,” she grumbled, shaking off his grasp and stalking down to the main deck. 

Rain spattered against the shield, spitting first, then pouring. Violet lightning flashed and the next crack of thunder had Stiles clamping his hands over his ears. 

Boyd and Lydia stood on either side of him in the middle of the deck, heads tilted back to watch the storm. 

The boat rocked roughly, sending them all stumbling. 

Lydia tugged their arms. “Come on, if we sit, we probably won’t fall on our faces.”

John, Alden, and Lise joined them on the deck, worried faces illuminated briefly by a flash of yellow lightning. 

Asher and Ripley sat behind them, watching the starboard side while Ari paced. Hail bounced off the shield, adding to the cacophony of rain, ferocious waves, and thunder. 

Stiles tipped his head back to watch the black and gray clouds roiling above them and caught his breath. He grabbed for Lydia’s hand automatically without looking down.

The creature was serpentine and almost too big for his mind to comprehend, sliding between and through the clouds, visible only in brief flashes of lightning. It had silver and maroon scales that gleamed with every flash, and Stiles couldn’t see head or tail, just moving, living scales, coiled muscles, sinuous movement, a creature so much bigger than them that a single blow would be devastating. 

The boat pitched to the right hard, throwing them all sideways. Stiles caught John’s arm before he could topple over, holding on while they all fought not to slip. The boat continued tipping, the rail moving dangerously close to the water. 

Wyatt and Jamel came crashing up from the second deck, followed closely by Nadine. Wyatt stalked to the center of the deck and put his arms out at his sides, palms facing out. His mouth drew into a flat line, muscles straining as he fought storm and sea. 

The boat began to level. 

Asher joined him, putting his own twist on the magic, pushing at the waves trying to topple them over. 

“We’re gonna get turned around some,” Ari announced, her voice miraculously cutting through the noise around them. “But we’ll be fine.”

Nadine and Ripley tried directing them by pushing wind at the sails, but they were no match for the wild wind buffeting them from every direction. 

“We have to ride it out,” Nadine called, and even though they’d known that, it had a calming effect, hearing it aloud. 

Lydia and Boyd joined Stiles again, and he finally pried his nails out of John’s arm. 

“Sorry,” he said as loudly as he could.

John waved him off. “I’ll be right back. Don’t fall off the boat,” he added sternly, heading for the stairs. 

“Remember on Scott’s sixteenth birthday, when the storm broke one of the windows in the living room and we all thought someone broke in?” Boyd asked. “And we all went running down with broomsticks and junk from Scott’s room for weapons and it was just a tree branch?”

Stiles laughed. “Yeah. We called Dad and everything.”

Lydia shook her head, but she was smiling. Her gaze never left the creature in the clouds. “I don’t think it’s dangerous.”

“What, the branch?” Stiles shrugged when she hit his arm.

“ _No_ , that thing. Whatever it is.” 

Boyd watched it, too, for a long moment. He flinched when thunder cracked. “You think it’s _not_ dangerous?”

“Not to us.” 

He and Stiles looked at each other, then away. Sure, maybe the creature wasn’t paying them any mind, but it was enormous, and currently swimming through clouds during a storm. Stiles would rather steer clear. Waves splashed over the shield, mingling with rain and shattered hail chunks. 

The storm lasted late into the night, but no one felt comfortable going to bed until the waves settled and the clouds began to clear. Ari gave Wyatt water and food and made him sit for a minute, then bullied Asher into relaxing for a few minutes, too.

“Everyone should sleep some, we’re going to have a rough day. I have no idea where we are.” She set her hands on her hips. 

Lydia’s brows furrowed, head cocking to the right, eyes going half-lidded. She took a short breath and her lips parted as if to speak. She screamed, high and sharp enough to shatter glass. 

Boyd lunged, one hand going around her mouth, the other gripping her arm, cutting off the scream before it could rise. 

Stiles froze, expecting her to snap off his fingers at the base, mouth dropping open.

Instead, she set her hand on his wrist and nodded. When he let go, she panted, “Thanks.”

“Where is it?” Ari asked, stopping beside them. 

Lydia swallowed. “It’s…more than one.”

Ari nodded grimly. 

Stiles glanced at Boyd, who shook his head. 

“No ghosts, just bodies.”

Stiles didn’t really understand how Lydia’s powers worked—surely banshees were only supposed to sense the newly dead or soon-to-die? But maybe it was like his and Asher’s powers, never having a reason to use the strongest spell so they didn’t know their true limits. 

“Bodies nearby,” Ari announced in her carrying voice. “Thanks,” she added to Lydia with a tilted, almost sympathetic smile before she went to help Jamel get the debris poles from the second deck.

It was dark, so they all gathered at the rails, peering blearily into the water to try and see boat wreckage that might catch on the ship. Stiles circled his fingers and made a light, so he, Lydia, Boyd, and John could actually see into the water, tense, braced to see victims of the storm. The surface was still rocky from the wind despite the storm’s departure, making Stiles wonder if whatever—or whoever—had made Lydia scream had been carried away by the current already. 

It took a minute to realize that the splashing sounded heavy and awkward, slow moving, at odds with the waves. Something made a muffled scraping sound, thick, scrabbling, and the boat swayed gently.

Behind them at the starboard side, Lise gasped. “Oh, god, oh gods, what—is—that?”

Stiles tripped over his own feet racing to see what she and Jamel were gaping at, catching himself on the rail. He straightened and looked over, then recoiled. 

Bloated, discolored corpses were crowded around the side of the ship, clawing with thick, bluish fingers at the metal sides, trying to crawl up. They paddled clumsily over each other, their movements jerky and stiff, bobbing under the surface. They tilted their faces up, he thought, but he couldn’t really tell because their heads were misshapen and odd.

Stiles’s breath shuddered in and out, struggling to make sense of the pale blobs he could see. He blinked, tried to focus. These creatures must have been like the husks they’d encountered with Kira and Rian. But what was driving these ones? Kira had said drowning the husks killed the wasps controlling the bodies, which was obviously not an option, as these ones were coming from the depths of the ocean. 

Stiles swallowed thickly and lifted his hand, casting light over them. 

Their heads were misshapen because they were split open, on the side, down the center, diagonally, erupting with sharp, gleaming red coral that seemed attached to their brains, like brightly colored parasites. 

One of them suddenly slapped a hand down in the water, bulging, filmy eyes dropping. It brought its hand up, clutching a writhing fish, and tore into its belly with teeth gone mossy with decay. 

Stiles turned his head away, gagging.

Lise shuddered. “What the _hell_ , I thought we opted _out_ of zombie apocalypse when we checked off nuclear war?”

Jamel shook his head without looking away from the one tearing apart the fish. 

The boat rocked as the others surged forward, pushing it with sheer numbers. 

Stiles raised his hand higher, watching jerky shadows swim toward them from further out.

“They’re going to tip us if we don’t get them away,” Jamel pointed out.

Ari cursed. “Nadine, Ripley, now would be a really good time to get the sails going.”

“We’re working on it!” Ripley was at the top of the highest mast, fighting with tangled canvas.

Stiles looked at the bodies and swallowed, gripping the rail as the boat swayed. He let the light spell fade and drew his arms in, fists to his chest, then thrust them out. With a bang and flash of light, Stiles flew off his feet. He slammed against the port side rail, then slumped, wheezing. 

They’d never taken the shields down and Asher’s had repelled him. 

He looked up dazedly, blinking hard as the sky wheeled above him.

Asher and Rosalva knelt on either side of him, hands hovering but not quite making contact. “Are you okay? I’m so sorry, I forgot the weather shields.” 

Stiles shook his head, trying to catch his breath. 

“Did you hit your head?” Rosalva asked, fingers sliding against the back of his skull to check for bumps.

“No,” he wheezed, “just my back.”

She scowled at him, then started running her fingers along his spine and ribs. 

Stiles looked over at the others, who were more distracted by the corpses than his flight, which he didn’t blame them for.

Boyd was leaning over the rail, sagging against it a little while Lydia rubbed his arm briskly. 

“ _Yes,_ ” Ari cheered. “Go Boyd! We need some light over here, I think there’s more under the surface.”

Asher stood to help with light, leaving Stiles to fight Rosalva off by himself.

“I’m fine,” he insisted. “Really. Let me go help them.”

“You hit _really_ hard. Take a deep breath, let me listen.” She tipped her head. 

Stiles took a deep breath, glowering at her all the while.

“Fine, you’re okay—bruised, but okay.” She sat back on her heels and waved him away, annoyed. 

He got up and elbowed his way through the rest of the crew to help. He flicked his left wrist, crumbling the shield in his fist like tissue paper. 

A bloated, blue tinged hand curled over the rail, the fingernails blackened, then another, pulling a clammy body up.

Stiles thrust his fist out.

The blast threw it away from the boat; it landed with a splash on some of its brethren, knocking them off course. 

Stiles lifted both of his fists and punched forward. With a _crack!_ the front wave of the bodies was shoved away, the water boiling and churning. 

“God,” Lise breathed. “Why are there so many of them?”

Stiles shook his head, watching, grim and unsurprised, while the others kept swimming toward the ship. 

They climbed up the sides with strange ease, despite their awkward, uncoordinated manner of moving.

Wyatt slammed his palms down on the rail next to Stiles, blowing the water back and tumbling the bodies over each other. 

Asher performed a weaker version of Stiles’s blast spell, face set, eyes narrowed as he put his hands out.

Stiles shuddered when one of the zombies used another to climb up the boat, bare, decaying foot stamping on its face. He rubbed his fingers together and blasted them again, but they kept coming, crowding around the ship like locusts. 

One of them reached the rail right in front of Boyd and Stiles gasped, hands raised to fling it away. 

But then it stopped, peering at Boyd with filmy gray eyes. It leaned up like a snake before a charmer, mouth dropping open. 

Slowly, slowly, it reached toward where its head was split apart. 

Boyd shuddered but kept his gaze on the zombie, hands clenched tight on the rail.

Its nails dug in, ripping at the coral growing out of its brain. 

Wyatt let out a disgusted groan; Stiles whipped around to see and recoiled. 

Several of the creatures in the water were digging at their heads where the coral was growing. They let out warbling screams and more bobbed to the surface between the broken bits of coral. An infestation.

They began climbing; any that got too close to the ones under Boyd’s control began ripping the coral away. Once the coral was gone, the bodies sank peacefully beneath the surface, fully limp. 

Stiles stretched his wrists and did another blast spell. 

One of the creatures broke in half when it smacked into another, scattering…things…along the surface of the water, and kept paddling, dragging its lower half by the attached organs. 

Stiles gagged and shoved it away. He gritted his teeth and lifted his hands, palm out, then brought them down.

A group exploded into dust. 

“The storm must’ve woken them,” Ari said in a hushed, horrified voice. “They usually clump together on the sea floor and eat what gets close.”

Stiles grimaced and had to turn away from the carnage briefly.

Wyatt grunted in frustration and gave another hard push, then spun on his heel. “There’s too many! Are the sails done?”

Ripley, who was still struggling with tangled rope and canvas, didn’t bother answering, looping some free rope around his arm.

Wyatt huffed and stalked to the center of the deck. The ship jerked, then began moving with more purpose. Tendons in Wyatt’s neck stood out like he was straining, his scars going stark white as his face flushed with exertion. 

A cold, clammy hand wrapped around Stiles’s wrist, slippery and thick. He blasted before he looked and ended up spraying himself, Boyd, Asher, and John with zombie guts. “Sorry,” he choked, backing away from the rail.

Boyd didn’t seem to notice. 

Asher huffed and sent a blast out, but it only knocked a few off the side.

Stiles shook his head and stepped up beside him. “Follow me,” he ordered. He lifted his hands, letting the spell rise to his mind, and thrust them out, leaving a clear path for Asher to follow.

Asher’s next blast flung about twelve of them away. 

“Better.” Stiles wiped his face with his shirt, forcibly _not_ thinking about what was dripping off of him. 

The coral creatures screamed again, watery howls, as the boat began picking up speed, moving away from the thickest group of them. 

Wyatt swayed. 

Ripley yanked one of the ropes and shouted, “Done!” before back-flipping off the mast and landing neatly next to Nadine. 

She nodded and narrowed her eyes, hands lifted to waist height, palms out. 

Stiles turned when Boyd groaned. “You okay?”

“There’s a lot of them,” he said through his teeth. “Hard to grab.”

Another clump of the corals reached into their own skulls, yanking the red spikes out in clumps.

The boat jerked; icy wind blew over the deck and the sails filled. 

Wyatt sighed and fell to the deck in one movement, eyes shutting. 

Jamel cursed and ran to his side. 

“Take him to his bed,” Rosalva ordered. “I’ll get him some water, he strained himself.”

Jamel scooped Wyatt up the way someone would a sleepy child, cradling him close as he took him to the stairs. 

Stiles turned back to the rail and squeezed his fist; the corals he’d been aiming at shuddered, skin sinking and browning momentarily before filling out again, water bloating them. His compression spell wasn’t going to do much against these things, apparently. He thrust his fist out again instead, exploding the group in one swoop. 

Boyd nodded his thanks and shifted his gaze to the next group.

Most of the crew stayed on deck through the night, watching for stray corals as Nadine’s wind took them further and further from the mob. Stiles only left the deck to clean off and change. He suspected no one wanted to wake up to a ship infested with coral zombies, so they were all just staying awake. He didn’t blame them. He noticed John sitting on the stairs leading to the hull near dawn, pale and dazed. 

“Hey.”

John looked up slowly. “Hey.” He sighed. “Those things made me think of the husks, when that girl started the fire.”

“Rian.” Stiles nodded. “Yeah, they reminded me of that, too.” 

“Glad we were all awake. Imagine if we’d all been sleeping.”

Stiles shuddered. “No, thank you, I’d rather not have that thought in my head forever.” He wasn’t going to forget any of this anytime soon, not the cold, bloated hand around his wrist, not the image of animated bodies ripping coral out of their own heads on Boyd’s command, not any of it. He leaned forward, suddenly exhausted. He gulped and scanned the deck. As gross as it was, it was also pretty cool, how Boyd had managed to control swaths of the undead, and Stiles wanted to gush at him about it, but he didn’t see Lydia or Boyd on deck. “Hey, I’ll be right back.”

John nodded and patted his shoulder, staring dazedly across the ship. 

Stiles went to look for them—he got the feeling Boyd was self-conscious about his powers and wanted to encourage him. He and Lydia might’ve had their powers for a decade already, but Stiles had his for twenty-one years, which was still eleven more than them. He knew a little bit about feeling like a freak. 

He went down to the second deck, feeling out for them with his magic first. He figured they’d either be in their room or the bottom deck, where Boyd went every morning to check for dead loved ones. He hesitated near the ladder leading down; it was nearly dawn, maybe Boyd had gone down early? He cast his senses out, but there was no one down there. 

He heard voices from the end of the hall and looked up; Boyd and Lydia’s cabin door was cracked, soft candlelight spilling into the hall. He grinned to himself and made his way down the hall. It was only when he was right outside their door that he realized they were arguing, their voices tense and raised just enough to make Stiles freeze automatically. 

“I think it’s time,” Boyd said in a strident tone that suggested he was repeating himself for emphasis. “We need to leave. I _want_ to leave.”

Stiles started to back up, then paused, opting for shameful eavesdropping. 

“I don’t,” Lydia snapped. 

“It’s time we go looking for everyone.” Boyd made some frustrated noise under his breath. “We can’t wait to stumble upon them, if we want to find everyone alive. We have to look.”

“I—Boyd, I’m not sure. It’s the whole _world._ We may never find them, alive or not. Especially if they stay on the move, like us.”

“But if we don’t, what’s the point? We claimed we were going to find everyone but we’ve been here five years, almost. We know they’re alive. That’s enough.”

“What if it _isn’t?_ ” Lydia demanded. “Who knows what the bombs did to them? Even if they’re alive, who knows what we might find?”

Stiles immediately thought of Peter, his gut clenching at the idea of Scott or Danny or Erica in that state. He dismissed the thought; Laura had said Peter wasn’t quite right _before_ the bombs, which was probably why it’d happened. Probably.

Boyd’s next breath was noisy. “We’ve hidden long enough, I think.” His voice was carefully measured, even. 

“I’m scared,” Lydia admitted in a whisper. 

Stiles gaped at the door.

“Me, too,” Boyd told her. “But if we don’t now, we’ll lose everyone. I can’t…Lydia, I can’t keep looking for them. What if one day I’m calling for them and I find one of them because they died before we even tried looking for them?”

Stiles pressed his lips together, dropping his gaze. He swallowed his reaction—after all, he’d eavesdropped, he’d have to deal with what he wasn’t supposed to hear—and backed up, then made a point of clattering down the hall and knocking on the door. “Boyd,” he gushed before they could answer, “that was so cool, oh my god…”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am having so much trouble writing, guys. I'm still far enough ahead that I don't think there will be a delay in posting as long as I stick to a schedule, but whoo. It's rough out here ha. I'm glad you're enjoying it though! <3

The sun shone brightly overhead, gleaming on the water’s surface like a thousand diamonds, and the air was bitterly, miserably cold. Stiles crossed his arms across his chest and glowered over the water as he shuddered uncontrollably. He felt Boyd’s smug stare on the side of his head but refused to look at or acknowledge him. That would be losing. 

“Stiles.” Ari stepped in front of him. “Alden needs help in the galley, why don’t you go?”

Most of the crew was above decks, helping get the netting ready. They’d stopped to fish near a tiny island, though no one was going ashore this time as far as he knew. 

Stiles had only come to help when he’d noticed how sunny it was—he hadn’t counted on the chill.

“Just _go_ ,” Boyd sighed. “You’re obviously freezing.” He was wearing a cotton monstrosity Asher had made that everyone was calling a shirt and didn’t look bothered by the biting wind. 

Stiles called foul. Clearly the wind didn’t want to touch the shirt and was going around it. He twisted around, seeking help from Lydia or John, but Lydia was nowhere to be seen and John was bundled up and helping Jamel with the nets. “Ugh.” He rolled his eyes. “Fine. But I’ll have you know, if it weren’t freezing, I’d be amazing at fishing.”

“Uh-huh.”

Ari rolled her eyes back and waved her hands, stalking over to Ripley. 

“She’s in a good mood.”

Boyd snorted. “She’s still angry,” he murmured. “Mad Hollow was her place.”

Stiles nodded. “I figured something like that.” He backed up a step when another gust of wind set his teeth chattering. “We’ll talk later?”

“Yeah.” Boyd watched him go, so Stiles tried not to rush down the stairs. 

He breathed a sigh of relief when he made it to the middle deck, where the walls blocked the wind. It was still chilly, but tolerable. 

Lydia was in the galley with Alden, selecting herbs from jars labeled with Asher’s spiky, distinctive handwriting. She flipped her hair over her shoulder and sniffed at one jar. “It smells like garlic,” she said warily. 

“If Asher labeled it garlic, he knew it was safe for food.” 

“Even so…” She turned, noticing Stiles in the doorway. “Oh, good. You can help us. We’re trying to season some of our food to boost morale because bland food is already the worst.”

“Tasteless gruel can only work for so long,” Alden sighed. “Too bad.” He was cutting up vegetables that Asher had grown last time, using a knife with a weird warped handle. “Prepping lunch and dinner for today,” he explained, gesturing with his knife.

“Ah, well just tell me where you need me.”

“Grinding rosemary,” Lydia said instantly. She put a jar on the table, next to a chipped stone pestle and mortar. 

“Was this the one Asher used for potions?” He stepped closer, concerned, but Lydia shook her head. 

“No way, he’s always careful about spell work.” She grabbed a warped cutting board, a knife, and another jar and sat at the table, then lifted a brow at Stiles. 

He shook a pile of rosemary into the mortar, inhaling the scent and smiling slightly as memories of cooking in an actual kitchen came back to him. He sighed and turned the pestle in his hand, feeling it out before setting it to the rosemary. 

Lydia plucked cloves of garlic out of her jar and arranged them on the cutting board. “So the fisherman’s life didn’t suit you?” 

He made a face at her. “It was colder than it looked up there,” he sniffed. “I wasn’t dressed for the weather.”

“Mmhm.” 

Stiles eyed the powder he’d made of the rosemary, but there were still quite a few leaves, so he kept grinding. He smiled to himself. “Hey, remember the last time I made a pot roast?”

She squinted at him. “It’s been ten years. I don’t know.”

He nodded. “Right. Well, everyone came over because we hadn’t all hung out in a month or so, and while I was cooking, most of you went out back…to play lacrosse.”

Her face flushed. “Was that-?”

“The time Scott brained Jackson with a lacrosse ball? Yeah.” Stiles snickered, then scowled. “Scott ran himself into an asthma attack while Boyd and Danny held Jackson back from chasing him.”

Lydia giggled, then laughed. “You ended up punching Jackson for that after you got Scott back.” She used her knife to move the minced garlic over and started on another clove. 

“He shouldn’t be a bully.”

“He was getting better,” Lydia insisted. “And he had to ice a black eye and a goose egg that night, have some sympathy.”

“No.” He flushed when Alden laughed over at the counter; he’d forgotten they weren’t alone. “Sorry for dominating the conversation,” he began, and hesitated, unsure what they could all talk about.

Alden shook his head. “It’s fine. I don’t mind listening to pre-bomb stories, as long as you don’t mind if I listen.” He finished deboning a fish and added it to the growing pile beside his work space. 

Stiles and Lydia shared a wicked grin. “Well,” he said, straightening in his seat, “in that case, let me tell you about the Whiskey Caper of Junior Year.”

Lydia smiled down at the garlic, shaking her head. 

“So my dad misplaces this really expensive bottle of whiskey, okay?”

Lydia snorted, but Stiles wasn’t deterred. 

“Being that he was co-housing about seven teenagers give or take depending on the day, he assumed one or all of us had stolen it, which was, honestly, a gross injustice, a baseless accusation-”

“It was _probable,_ ” Lydia burst in, making Alden laugh. 

“ _Anyway._ Because we were so insulted, we had to have revenge. How dare he—he _besmirch_ our honor, accuse us with no proof? So…” He couldn’t help smirking. “So, Erica, Scott, Jackson, and I slowly but surely, thoroughly, switched every ounce of alcohol or liquor in the house with water, painstakingly matching colors for hours until we got it right.” 

Alden laughed loudly enough that it echoed through the room, making Lydia grin.

“We didn’t drink any of it, either, out of principle—our virtue had been called into question! We emptied _everything_ , until not even Dad’s beers were untampered with, his locked liquor cabinet infiltrated and debauched, and then-” Stiles paused for effect, grinning when he saw Alden’s tension, Lydia’s badly concealed laughter. “He found the once-missing whiskey, wrapped in the back of his closet as a gift that he’d forgotten to give someone.”

“Oh, no!” Alden snickered. 

“He apologized to all of us,” Stiles continued solemnly, “ _weeks_ too late to save anything.”

Alden let out a deep gut laugh, nearly dropping a fish.

“Yeah, wait til you hear how many dollars’ worth of whiskey they poured down the sink.” John stood in the doorway of the galley, arms crossed with one shoulder tipped against the frame. 

Stiles winced. “Justice had to be served,” he said weakly.

“Brat.”

He straightened indignantly. “You are the _sheriff._ You should _know_ innocent until proven guilty!”

“I had probable cause!”

“Ha!” Lydia crowed. 

Stiles said, “You’re both the worst. And _old._ ”

Lydia screamed—a normal scream, with no banshee power—and lunged, snatching a fish head from Alden’s discard pile.

Stiles lurched backward, tangling in the chair and toppling to the floor. Something cold and wet slid down the back of his shirt. “Oh my god!” He twisted and writhed, back arching to get away from the sliding fish head while Lydia and John laughed. “I hate you.” He stood and shuddered when it plopped to the floor. “Oh, god, I’m never going to feel clean again.” He shook his arms, but it didn't erase the sensation from his memory. “Grind your own damn rosemary, _eugh._ ”

John scoffed at him. “It’s just a fish!”

“ _In my shirt._ ” He sniffed and stalked out, making sure not to laugh until he hit the stairs; he heard Lydia laughing again and smiled. He rubbed his arms as he got above decks. The wind was still chilly and strong, tugging at his clothes and hair. He scanned the deck, watching everyone bustling around, purposeful and cheered at the prospect of food. Not that they’d been starving, but he knew at least half of them had lived on land before, so they knew what it was like to go without. 

Wyatt lifted a ladder over the port side, away from the nets, lowering it with both hands. 

Stiles glanced around again, but no one seemed to be paying attention to him. He was sure no one should be going off on their own _and_ that most of the crew would have a heart attack if Wyatt, of all of them, went off on his own. He wandered over, eyeing him as he went.

Wyatt was dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, with an empty backpack over his shoulder and a few buckets by his feet. 

“Hey,” Stiles said cautiously.

“Hey.” He paused to grin at him, then got back to tying the buckets together with a length of rope.

Stiles observed for another twenty seconds. “So…where are you going?”

He pointed at the island they were close to. “I wanted to go check for plants, since Ari said we’d be anchored for a while.” He glanced up at Stiles’s face and scowled. “I wasn’t going alone,” he snapped. “Jamel is coming with, and even if he wasn’t, I can take care of myself.” He turned back to his buckets, shoulders tight.

“I know that,” Stiles said defensively. “I—I just—uh, I was…” He grimaced, caught, when Wyatt lifted a brow. “Can I come with?” 

“Sure,” he muttered. 

Stiles nodded gratefully and backed off. He had to remind himself that as young as Wyatt seemed, he’d survived as an eight-year-old in all of this that had nearly killed all the adults around him. He’d be pretty annoyed at being coddled if he were in Wyatt’s place, too. “Sorry,” he offered after a long silence. 

The frown eased off of Wyatt’s face and he sighed. “It’s fine. I’m used to it,” he added, scratching absently at his scars. “There’s shallow water over here in a path to the island, but it’s like a narrow strip, so we have to follow it unless we want to swim.” He straightened. “I’ll go get Jamel,” he mumbled.

Stiles leaned against the rail, sighing deeply. He guessed that could’ve been worse.

Across the deck, Jamel and Wyatt were talking to Ripley, who was balanced on the starboard rail, watching the nets. 

Boyd was a few feet away listening to whatever Rosalva was telling him and Nadine, nodding seriously. 

Stiles rubbed his eyes and turned away, peering over the side. If he squinted, he could _just_ make out the uneven strip of stone Wyatt had been talking about, leading away from the boat toward the island. He frowned, but it could’ve happened naturally, he guessed. It was certainly jagged and mossy enough to have formed after the bombs. 

“Ready?” Wyatt chirped from behind.

“Yep.” Stiles grimaced, knowing the water was going to be cold, before he turned to face them. 

Jamel’s mouth twitched. “I’ll go first,” he offered, swinging a leg over the rail.

The water was just as cold as Stiles thought it would be, which made the walk even more miserable. It was up to their knees and their little path was only just wide enough for them to shuffle their way along, arms held out to keep their balance. 

Fish darted close and then away, fins and weird antennae brushing against Stiles’s legs like they were testing to see how edible he was. He shuddered and brought a hum of magic to his skin, sending the water bubbling around them. 

It wasn’t enough to scare away large predators, but the small fish darted away, disappearing into the deeper water. 

“At least there aren’t any piranhas,” Wyatt chirped as they splashed out of the water onto shore.

Stiles grimaced. “That’s a fun thought,” he muttered. He glanced over Jamel and Wyatt. “Sorry I can’t dry us off—I’d probably set everyone on fire if I tried.” 

Jamel shrugged. “It’s pretty sunny, we’ll be fine.” 

Stiles nodded and looked past them. This island was bigger than the last one they’d visited, with glittering white sand and maybe one tree in the distance. There were strange, indigo plant stalks growing out of the sand, maybe four feet tall and dry looking. They had a gentle magical hum, purring and maybe medicinal, Stiles couldn’t tell. 

Jamel bent over to look at them, a puzzled frown on his face, while Wyatt shook water out of his buckets and tossed his backpack on the sand. 

Stiles pinched one of the stalks between his fingers, surprised by how silky soft they felt. They rustled like dry leaves in the breeze but felt like dandelion fluff under his fingertips. He twisted a piece off and examined it magically, prodding at the hum. Pain relief? No…relief… _sleep._ “They can be used to make a sleeping potion,” he blurted. 

“Oh, cool.” Wyatt started gathering the stalks, twisting and cutting with practiced ease. 

Stiles straightened, turning his face into the breeze that was carrying a strange, sweet scent with it. He cast his senses, but all he felt were plants, the quiet thrum of life but no thoughts or motives that he could understand at least, no emotion. He inhaled that heady scent again and glanced at Jamel and Wyatt. 

They were both preoccupied with the stalks. 

He’d be right back, and they were fine. He followed the scent toward taller stalks, indigo and green mixed together, higher than his waist. The scent grew stronger the deeper he walked into the stems, sand sliding fine and slippery underfoot, like spilled sugar. He stumbled out of the crowd of stalks into a clear area, ears filled with the warning hiss of poison. He looked down. 

A clump of white, star-shaped flowers was growing in a tangle out of the sand, sprawling two feet in every direction. The sweet scent was coming from them. 

He frowned at them, into the silvery gold petals in the middle, the cups of dew; around them, the sand was disturbed as they killed the stalks, growing over the fallen plants slowly but steadily. 

Stiles shook himself free and held his breath, putting a hand out at the flowers. Fire started in the center and spread, eating over the flowers and their stems quickly and without resistance. Smoke coiled up in shimmery blue plumes as they burned to ashes. He rubbed his arms and stepped back once the fire burned itself out. He should go back to Jamel and Wyatt to warn them not to touch any flowers. He only got a blip of danger, heart jumping, before an elf stepped out of the stalks across from him. 

She was pale, with full maroon eyes and curly gray hair bound back, wearing rough leather armor over her clothes. “That was rude.”

Stiles thrust his fist out.

The elf deflected the blast with a potion tossed at his feet, knocking him flying as noxious gas spread.

He rolled onto his stomach and threw his hands over his head. A boom like dynamite rocked the ground and wet chunks sprayed, making his stomach lurch. His chin dug into the sand as he waited out the aftershocks, then he jumped to his feet and ran. 

An arm slammed across his chest, knocking him flat again.

Winded, he stared at the sky. Something sharp poked into his shoulder. 

Another elf, smaller, pixie-like, with umber skin, tousled brass curls, and full golden eyes stood over him. Her mouth curved into a weirdly sweet smile as she crouched on his stomach, laying the sharp blade of a knife against his throat. “Now, put your hands in front of you.”

He glared at her. 

The knife pressed harder against his throat. “ _Now._ ”

He put his hands up by his chest and flexed his fingers. 

Before he could cast, she looped sticky white vines through his fingers that somehow dulled the magic, settling it before it had a chance. “Get up.” She got off him and kept the knife at his throat while they both stood. She jerked his arms around behind his back and began tying the sticky vines, keeping strands of it looped through his fingers. She finished with a satisfied grunt and stepped around in front of him, holding her knife up. “Your magic isn’t going to work,” she said calmly, “now start-” 

Stiles shifted his weight to his left leg and kicked with his right; the elf flew back but so did he, hitting the ground with a breathtaking _thud_ , fingers crushed under his back. Wheezing, he flipped onto his stomach and scrambled forward, desperate to put space between himself and the elf. He cursed when he heard her moving and inhaled, ignoring his aching lungs. “Jamel! Run!” he bellowed. 

A hard kick to the shoulder knocked him over, into the dry green stalks.

One jabbed into his upper cheek, bringing reflexive tears to his eyes. 

The elf bunched his shirt in her fist and yanked him to his feet, breathing hard, teeth bared. “Try that again and I’ll cut your leg off,” she spat.

Stiles threw all of his weight to the right and ran; his shirt tore loudly but he didn’t stop, running as quick as he could. He could feel himself tipping forward, off balance with his arms behind his back, and tried to right himself. He made it about thirty feet before he fell on his face, teeth clamping painfully on his tongue. He kicked against the sand, pushing himself forward inch by inch. He spat blood in the sand and rotated his wrists, but no magic flared from his fingers. The vines didn’t even get warm. He curled his legs in to get up on his knees. 

A hand dug into his hair and yanked his head back, forcing him to face the blinding sun. Something flashed metallic above him and he squeezed his eyes shut, braced for the bite of a blade before death. 

Something thin and cold forced itself between his lips, onto his tongue before he could fight it. He jerked back, already trying to spit it out, but the elf clamped his jaw shut with powerful fingers. It felt like a leaf on his tongue, the flavor earthy and strange. He tried to kick out but found himself going limp instead, his muscles slackening, neck rolling.

“There,” she said, letting go of him.

He slid, boneless, to the ground, cheek resting against the sunbaked sand, eyes blinking slow and lazy. Thoughts drifted unnoticed through his brain like unmoored boats on a sluggish river, disjointed and unimportant. 

The elf bent to put her arms around and under him; he was awake but utterly limp as she slung him over her shoulder.

His head rolled, gaze tracking over the clouds in the sky, the rolling waves, as she carried him to a small rowboat. He wondered briefly why they didn’t have one of those before the thought was swept away like a wispy cloud. The world swayed and passed by in a smeared blur, colors running, bluebrowngreen, like a ruined painting, before they arrived. 

The ship was made up entirely of grape-Popsicle purple wood, like an LSD pirate ship.

A drunken giggle made its way to his throat, audible despite his mouth staying firmly shut.

The elf scoffed as she dropped him on the purple deck. “The witch wants _this one’s_ powers?”

“Yes,” a deeper voice said. “What happened to Sira?”

There was a long silence, during which Stiles observed the purple deck with great interest. “It’s her blood on him,” the elf responded at last. 

Another, deeper scoff. “ _That’s_ why she wants him, Thistle,” he snapped.

Stiles laughed, his mouth opening just enough to pour hysterical, gurgling laughter into the air.

“Ugh, shut up.” She grabbed his upper arm and yanked him back to his feet, dragging him along while he was trying to figure out which way was up. She wrenched him forward, the ground disappeared, and he fell through the dark. 

He landed hard, crumpled in a heap before his legs flopped out and he let out a long sigh. His hands throbbed dully under his back. 

A shadow jumped on him, knees pressing into his chest, and fingers jammed into his mouth.

He mustered enough energy to bite down hard, clamping the fingers between his teeth until he felt the hard resistance of bone.

The person sitting on him yelped but kept digging, finally grasping the slimy leaf on his tongue and yanking it out, then scrambling off of him.

With the pressure off his chest, Stiles wheezed, but he didn’t have the energy to get up or look anywhere but straight ahead, which happened to leave him facing the narrow shaft of light from wherever he’d been dropped from. It took a couple minutes to wear off, whatever it was. He only realized it was going when his shoulders began to ache, his cheek throbbing, his stomach and leg joining the cacophony of pain from his body in moments. He groaned and rolled onto the side that hurt the least. 

Wyatt sat nearby, cradling his bitten fingers and watching him warily. 

“Sorry.” Stiles grimaced. “Where’s Jamel?”

“He escaped. He thought I was already in the water, so he went after me, to look for me, and that’s when the elves grabbed me.” 

Stiles squirmed up onto his knees, twitching his fingers and pulling at the vines, but whatever was coating them was making his magic completely useless. He grunted, bringing flames to his whole body, but only succeeded in burning a few holes in his already ripped shirt before he let them die down.

“Here.” Wyatt walked behind him. “I’m just gonna untie them, so it might take a minute.”

“Thanks.”

“My knife is useless now, I tried to cut mine off.” He sighed noisily and pulled at the vines hard, nearly toppling Stiles over. “Whoops, almost…” He huffed and yanked again, and the pressure eased off of Stiles’s wrists. Wyatt tossed the vines away into a sticky heap. 

“Thanks.” He observed his fingers, grimacing at the gleaming goo stuck between them. It looked like the mucus that bear he’d encountered with the Hales had been secreting. It seemed to work the same way, too. “Is there any water in here?”

“Yeah, but it’s salt water,” he replied, wrinkling his nose. 

“That’s fine, can you show me?”

Wyatt led him carefully through the dark, toward the wall where a barrel almost as tall as him had been placed. 

Stiles cast his senses, but couldn’t feel anything alive in the barrel, so he plunged his hands in. The water was cool, and smelled stale, as if it’d been sitting for a while. He had no idea why they had a container of salt water down here, except possibly just to mess with their prisoners. He glowered as he scrubbed his hands, working the sticky sap off his palms and fingers. He did small flame bursts until he felt his magic fully break through the goo. 

“Did you see anyone else up there?” Wyatt asked while he was shaking water off his hands. 

“No.” Stiles circled his fingers and lit up their cell—it looked like the cargo hold of the ship, all wood, no doors or windows. There were a couple notches on the floor, likely where they braced the bottom legs of a ladder to get up and down. Everything was made of the same bright purple wood. Stiles tilted his head back, but the door they’d been dropped through was a good fifteen feet above their heads. He rubbed his fingers together, touched them to the wall, and cursed when it zapped him.

“What?”

“One sec,” he mumbled, prodding at the walls. Magic layered the whole boat, a thin sheen like a coating of early morning frost. 

So the elves had grown the wood for the boat themselves, wrong though it was, and Della had cast protections on it. He looked around. He wasn’t sure if he could burn it, not without breaking through the protections first, which would surely alert the elves. If he did manage, he’d have to make sure he and Wyatt got out before suffocating or burning to death, or drowning. He felt along the walls and floor with his magic, pressing and prodding until he felt a crack, a weakness, anything he could use to their advantage, as his mind whirled with plans.

He swung around to face Wyatt. “How strong _is_ your telekinesis?” he asked.

Wyatt’s smile shined brighter than Stiles’s light.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! <3 <3

Laura didn’t want to wake up. She could feel her mind making the lazy journey into consciousness and fought it, desperate to stay in her pleasant if hazy dream just a little longer. There were no real details to her dream, just the soft, relaxed feeling of a world that was right again, and she didn’t want to leave it. Her shoulder ached and her hip throbbed, bringing her closer to consciousness, until she finally sighed and opened her eyes. She was alone. She knew that, even without knowing where she was, confused and disoriented. She sat up, her gaze catching on the stone walls, the rocks. They’d taken cover in a cave, she remembered, to avoid a raging storm. 

She shuddered. The cave was humid and smelled dank, empty except for her. She didn’t remember falling asleep, just that the three of them had stumbled in together. She’d tossed her bag down and shaken rain out of the short ends of her hair, watching Derek wring water from his shirt, and then…nothing. She must’ve fallen asleep while Derek and Peter were setting up for the night. She rubbed her eyes, scrubbing grit from her lashes and a wet line of drool from her jaw. 

She listened, but she couldn’t hear Derek and Peter deeper in the cave, couldn’t hear much: a gentle breeze rustling leaves outside, blowing through the grass, the very distant sound of moving water. She swallowed nervously and plucked at her pants, one finger finding a hole and worming through it absentmindedly. She looked over the disturbed dirt, the remnants of their camp, and spotted Peter’s bag tucked up against the wall, barely visible due to the layer of dirt over the original blue fabric. 

He’d rolled it in mud on purpose, glaring as if daring anyone to ask what he was doing. 

Laura got to her feet shakily, brushing pebbles and dirt off her legs. 

Peter’s bag was there, the banked fire they’d started the night before was cool, and Derek’s things were gone…As were Peter and Derek themselves. 

She crossed her arms, rooted in place by fear. Any step she took, any decision she made, would end with her finding the answer to questions she didn’t want to ask. She brushed the backs of her hands over her cheeks and straightened her shoulders, making herself scent the air. 

She could smell them, but faintly, and her heart sank. Did they finally give up on her? Did _Derek_ give up on her? That would explain why only his bag was gone, if Peter had chased after him. She knew she hadn’t been the best alpha, that she’d been so dangerously stupid, but she’d only been trying to protect everyone, Derek especially. 

For eleven years, it’d been just the two of them against everything; they’d survived the fire together, the bombs, they’d kept track of Peter together and tended each other’s wounds, she had…they’d…

She jolted as fear struck through her from deep within and snarled, twisting and running out of the cave. 

It wasn’t hers. 

Her fear was slick and oily, coating her throat and trapping her in place; this was cold and desperate, squirming for safety but stuck, pinned. 

She fell into a partial shift and howled, her voice bouncing off the cave and growing louder. She could smell Peter and Derek’s trail leading away from the cave. She dropped on all fours and followed the scent trail, her human hands shredding and healing on the rough forest ground.

Blood dotted and smeared the trail she was following; her lips curled back, fangs sliding out as a snarl broke from her throat, guttural and furious. She heard Derek’s voice, thick and odd, and sped up, scrambling clumsily over a fallen tree. She tumbled over to the other side, panting, and leaped to her feet. Blood dripped from her cut fingertips as they twitched, braced for a fight. 

Derek and Peter were backed up against a tall mud wall, cornered by a porcupine with six legs and a single, red eye. Derek was slumped against the muddy wall, one arm slung over a jutting rock as he struggled to stay upright. There were several thick spines in his leg, stained with blood and reeking with poison.

Peter stood in front of him, fully shifted and fending the porcupine off as well as he could without getting stuck himself. He darted in low and snapped his teeth at one of its legs, pulling back quickly when it bit at his ear. 

Laura roared. She grabbed a rock and threw it at the porcupine’s ass, stamping her feet to get its attention on her and off of her pack. 

Peter scrambled back when it turned, dodging its spines and pressing his shoulder into Derek’s chest, holding him upright. 

_Just a little longer,_ Laura thought. _I’ll protect you._ She always did. She grabbed another rock and hurled it, clocking the porcupine upside the head. 

It paused for a moment, as if it was assessing the situation…choosing its prey. 

Laura bared her teeth at it, leaning forward unconsciously, readying for a fight. 

Derek slumped forward over Peter’s back. 

She straightened; she couldn’t fight this stupid thing—she had to get it away from her pack. She curled her lip up further, exposing her gums, lengthening her fangs. 

The porcupine chattered, clicking its teeth together and bristling. 

Laura backed up, edging right. She could hear water running in that direction, and thought maybe she could lose it in a river or even a large stream. 

It clacked its teeth together louder, lowering its front paws to the ground. 

Laura wasn’t an expert on animals—not even wolves, she just knew they were similar enough to be named after each other and different enough to repel each other—but she was pretty sure porcupines were generally slow moving. Why run when you could stab an attacker in the face, right?

The porcupine barreled forward, spines stuck out all over like a really pissed off hairbrush, chittering its head off. 

She twisted and ran, falling onto all fours instinctively. She could hear it following her, close enough that she wasn’t worried about it losing interest and far enough that she wasn’t too focused on not getting stuck in the ass to pay attention to where she was going. The river was a roar straight ahead, between rocks and trees and sharp, thin bramble that clung to her clothes and skin and hair.

Chittering teeth and claws raced behind her, tumbling just as clumsily over the rocks and bramble. 

Laura had a bare, split second to gauge how wide the river was before launching herself across it. She nearly missed, legs skidding into the water and through the muck, scrambling up as icy water slid into her boots. She twisted, sure she was going to get quilled, and managed to glimpse the porcupine’s tail before the fast moving river swept it away. She blew out a breath and flopped into the mud, rubbing her eyes. She felt like an exhausted toddler, weepy and cranky and completely overwhelmed by everything. Unfortunately, she was thirty-two— _fuck_ , was she thirty-two?—and she had responsibilities. She pushed to her feet and reminded herself that she could be working in a bank, ready to rip through the walls and her own skin out of boredom. It didn’t ease the sting as she picked thorns out of her hands. 

Peter and Derek were exactly where she’d left them, which made her heart clench in her chest. 

She swallowed, looking at them both seriously. “I thought you guys left me,” she admitted. 

Peter shook Derek off and shifted back, straightening to his full height just to give her a disapproving look. 

She shook her head, swallowing to try and loosen her throat a bit. “No, I—I wouldn’t blame you guys. I led us all into a very obvious trap. I should’ve seen it, but-” She clenched her jaw, refusing to let her eyes tear up. “But I was.” She ran her fingers over the scars on her neck, trying not to think of the ones across her ribs, directly across her guts. “They tore us apart in the beginning, Peter.”

His eyes lit up red.

She nodded. “I didn’t know if you remembered, but you killed the pack that almost killed me and Derek. That’s how you became an alpha.”

He fell back a step, looking badly startled, face paling, gaze darting to her throat.

“I guess you didn’t,” she murmured. “You saved us when I c-couldn’t.” She swallowed and straightened her shoulders. “I will do everything I can to keep you guys safe if—you’ll let me.”

Derek sat up suddenly, making Laura jump—what a great alpha she was, forgetting about her poisoned brother. He looked at her quizzically for a moment, then fell forward on his hands and puked. 

Laura scrambled around Peter and dropped to her knees next to Derek, giving the quills a quick glance and reaching for them, then stopping herself. It wouldn’t do anyone any good if she got poisoned, too. She peeled her top shirt off and wrapped it around her hand like a glove, striking out for the quills while Derek was dry heaving.

He yowled and yanked his leg away, inadvertently pulling the quills out himself. Blood spread immediately over his jeans, stinking with poison.

Laura grabbed his ankle, dragging him closer so she could sniff the wounds. They’d encountered other, _slower_ porcupines before, and their poison had only ever made them kind of drunk, so she wasn’t too worried beyond the concern that he might get dehydrated. It smelled mostly like the same poison, rusty and gross in her nostrils, heavy, thick. She sighed. “Come on, let’s get you back to the cave.”

Peter helped her prop Derek up, hoisting him to his feet between them; it wasn’t the weight so much as the desire to keep him upright that made help necessary. 

He got sick twice more on the shambling walk back to the cave. 

Laura settled him back against the wall and dug through her bag for her water bottle. She shoved her sweater aside and pulled the bottle free, holding it up to see what she could tell already from the weight. The bottle was mostly empty. She unscrewed it anyway and tipped it into Derek’s mouth, quietly encouraging him to drink it all.

He sighed once it was gone, closing his eyes. 

Laura stared at the empty bottle in her hands. 

Peter leaned over her shoulder and knocked his head against hers, then smiled. 

Her eyes teared up. “Go get Derek some water,” she ordered in a choked voice. 

He smiled again and grabbed the bottle from her. 

Laura sighed and turned back to Derek, jumping when she saw his eyes were open. “Hey. Are you-”

He lunged forward, catching her wrists in hot, clammy hands and putting his face very close to hers. His eyes were slipping in and out of focus, and he was breathing hard, bathing Laura’s face in puke breath. “Laura,” he said seriously, “you’re the best alpha, and I t-trust you.”

“Thanks, Derek, but-”

“I really, really do. I trust you. Only you. Not even Peter all the time, but-” He hiccupped, tensed, and gagged. 

Laura twisted out of the way just as he lost it, barely missing her. She grimaced, but she couldn’t abandon him now, after all this. She sighed and rubbed his back. She wouldn’t leave him, vomit or not.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy the explosions! I'm still outlining part three of this (and writing it, idk, my process is _weird_ ) and hope you're enjoying! :D

Stiles brought his hands together, closed his eyes, and took a few slow, shallow breaths. Magic surged in his chest, like a slow growing flame. He held it, held his breath, gathering power, and then, turning his wrists, blasted the floor. The magic bounced back, throwing him up against the ceiling and dropping him again. He groaned as both his ribs and his back throbbed. He lifted his head. 

Wyatt stood over him, arms crossed, brows lifted. “And _how_ was that supposed to be better than when you blasted the wall?”

Stiles sat up and wiped blood from his lip where he’d bitten it on the way down—or up, maybe, he couldn’t tell. It was fast. “Okay, so maybe I estimated wrong.” He pressed a hand to his ribs, wheezing and looking up at the door they’d been dropped through. He knew his little attacks weren’t going to work, because of whatever had been done to the wood making up the boat. He stood up, rubbing his back.

Wyatt scoffed. “Your other plan is better, we can do that plan. We _should_ do that plan.”

Stiles sucked his split lip into his mouth, worrying the swollen skin with his tongue. “We’ll end up in open water with a bunch of elves that don’t care if we die or get maimed.” 

Overhead, the elves’ voices rose as they began arguing again, noisy and unclear about their prisoners, apparently. 

“Well, he’s obviously the one she wanted. He blew Sira to chunks and would’ve gotten Thistle, too, if she hadn’t have-”

“Yes, but the _other_ one-”

“She said he was blond and young, and that he would be with Stilinski,” another elf cut in. “That’s what that kid looks like.”

“She didn’t mention the scars.” Thistle’s voice was recognizable to Stiles in that it made his skin crawl immediately. “I’d _think_ that would be a pretty good identifying mark to use to describe him to us.”

Wyatt frowned, touching his cheek, then going wide eyed. “They-”

“She sent us for Stilinksi, the little shit who killed Sira, and the son of a witch from the collective. Did he use any magic when you were grabbing him?”

There was a long silence. 

Wyatt shook his head.

“He used kinesis.”

“Are you serious?” A thump. “What part of _witches_ was confusing for you?”

“Shut up!” Thistle snapped. “We’ll kill the kinetic and present her with one witch, go back for the other later.” 

Stiles looked at Wyatt, mouth pressed tightly together.

He grinned crookedly and waggled his fingers. 

Someone stomped on the door above them. “Get up against the wall!”

Wyatt waved his fingers faster. “Well?”

“Fine. Go over there, start pushing, and don’t stop until it’s tinder.”

“Yes!” He fist pumped and ran for the side Stiles had pointed him to.

Stiles went to the opposite wall. He had a spell that mimicked telekinesis, the one he used to throw people non-lethally. He put his hands up and pushed as hard as he could, shoring up the spell, ramping up the power gradually. The boat groaned but, just as Stiles suspected, didn’t bounce the spell back at him. The magic was meant to stop attacks, not pressure. 

The ship rocked and rumbled, creaking behind him, swaying as Wyatt’s raw telekinetic talent struck out like a force of nature. 

Stiles gritted his teeth and doubled down on his spell; he wasn’t used to performing it continuously and it felt odd, like pouring his magic out of a bottomless pitcher. 

A bone-deep _crack_ vibrated up his spine. Above them, the elves started shouting again, feet stamping over the deck as they scrambled to find what’d broken.

Wyatt grunted, the boat shuddered, and there was another _crack._

Water gushed in, rushing around their ankles. Stiles looked down, panicked. What if they drowned before they broke out? He flexed his fingers and glanced over his shoulder at Wyatt. “Give it _everything_ , we have to break it now-” He pitched forward as Wyatt pushed harder, nearly crumbling the boat himself. Stiles curled his fingers in and pushed. 

The boards cracked underfoot, buckling as more water rushed in, up to their knees. 

When the ship finally collapsed in on itself, it was loud, deafening, and confusing. A board slammed behind Stiles’s knees, knocking him spinning. Water rushed up his nose, burning through his sinuses. He had no idea which way was up or if they’d escaped at all or if the boat had trapped them—his only thought was to keep himself and Wyatt from drowning. His legs jerked, arms paddling uselessly in the direction of the surface—he hoped. A piece of wood struck his cheek, knocking him off course and leaving him dazed. 

He kicked hard, turning his face up to the light; when he broke the surface, he managed a single gasp before a hand wrapped around his ankle and yanked him under. 

The elf dragged him closer, nails biting into his skin, blue eyes glowing. 

He kicked her in the face with his other foot.

She let go to grab her nose, stemming the blood. She threw one hand out and the water rippled, currents pushing and pulling at Stiles from every direction.

He put his arms back and pushed them forward, shock waves of magic lashing out at her.

She tumbled back, blood trailing behind her. 

Stiles kicked frantically to the surface, gasping hard, blinking tears out of his eyes. He sniffed and looked around, shaking water out of his ears. 

Splashing made him tense and turn his head. 

Wyatt was fighting two elves, struggling to keep his head above water while they tried to drag him under. 

Stiles shoved some wood out of his way and kicked forward, forcing himself to move his arms despite the deep ache of various bruises screaming at him to just stop, just rest, just breathe. A rope tangled itself around his left arm, pieces of wood and fibers scraping his skin. He huffed water away from his mouth and yanked his arm free, bobbing under the surface. 

Water crashed over his head, tumbling him under, a panicked gasp pulling water into his mouth and making his throat seize. He coughed and gagged but there was no escape, the water was everywhere, invasive, cold, unforgiving. He felt his hands jerk up like the last reflex of a dying man, and gasped as his feet hit something solid. He fell to his hands and knees at the bottom of the shield, back hunching as he gagged forcefully. The shield wavered around him. He looked around, panting, snot and spat-up sea water trailing thickly down his face. He shuddered as he fed his magic into the shield. 

A shadow passed overhead. 

He looked up.

Wyatt was leaving a cloud of blood as he fought to stay up, his kicks getting slower and weaker. 

A short distance away, an elf was cutting swiftly through the water, gaze locked on Wyatt.

Stiles muttered, “Damn it,” sucked in a deep breath, and dropped his shield. He kicked forward, shoulders burning as he stroked, and, oddly, he couldn’t help thinking about how much he loved swimming before, in pools and lakes mostly, with Scott usually. It was dumb, he had to focus on now, but all he could think about was Scott jumping off a rock and into a murky lake, surfacing with some kind of plant matter across his face like a green scar. Stiles’s head throbbed, chest burning; he kicked harder, frantic, uncoordinated, jerking forward too slow.

Wyatt’s hand whipped out when he got close, grabbing Stiles’s shirt and yanking him above the surface. 

He gasped, tilting his head back and willing his heart to slow. “Gotta swim,” he panted. “They’re coming.”

“Uh-huh.” Wyatt’s hand spasmed on his shirt. “Here. Behind you.”

Stiles turned, flapping his arms down to lift higher out of the water. 

The elf who’d been after Wyatt had surfaced. He grinned and lifted his hands. Water coiled around his arms, rocking and slapping around him, growing restless and violent. It arced above their heads, blocking out the sun. 

Stiles swore and backpedaled; the waves crashed into them, one after another, shoving them down over and over again.

Wyatt grasped Stiles’s wrist and held his other hand up, pushing back at the water forcing them into the depths, but they were still sinking too rapidly. The water churned around them, obscuring their view of anything but frothy white bubbles. 

Stiles yanked Wyatt closer and threw a shield around them. 

Wyatt gasped noisily. “Thanks,” he hiccupped. “I can—I can push…” He put his hand up against the shield. 

The bubble moved toward the surface by about a foot.

Wyatt dropped to the bottom of the shield, his legs tangled awkwardly, eyes rolling back to whites before they closed. 

“Shit,” Stiles muttered. He knelt beside him, checking his pulse, but he knew what’d happened—Wyatt had overexerted himself and fainted, just as he’d done days ago when they were fighting the corals. He checked that he was breathing okay before he stood back up. He had to take stock and figure out how to get them out of this. They were close enough to the surface that the space around them was lit up, but below them and beyond the light remained threatening and hardly visible, shadows bobbing just out of sight. He rubbed the back of his hand over his mouth.

The water was cluttered with debris from the ship, churned up from the crash and fighting, and there were elves swimming along the surface, not nearly as many as the boat had been holding. That meant the rest could be anywhere around them, ready to attack, and he was exhausted. Surely most of them would assume he and Wyatt were drowning or had drowned and would try to save themselves. 

Weird, green-blue light drifted over the shield like the headlights of a passing vehicle, but Stiles couldn’t locate the source. A school of fish with two heads each swam by, moving like one, an orange and silver wall that flashed in the sun. 

Stiles chewed his lip and winced when he broke open the cut. He twisted his hands in his sopping, ripped shirt. 

The fish scattered, darting off in every direction as an elf with flowing white hair lunged out of the dark. He struck the shield and bounced off, tumbling end over end away from them.

Stiles put his hands out and tried to do his telekinetic spell, tried to get them moving, but it was like trying to wring water from a rock—he was tapped out.

He turned in place and caught a flash of gold.

Thistle’s curls had retained their shape underwater somehow, eyes beaming gold lights as she cut through the water. 

Stiles set his jaw and shrunk the shield so it was only around Wyatt, arms thrown out to steady himself as his support disappeared. He swam toward her, teeth gritted. 

Thistle looked shocked, then pleased, brandishing her knife and speeding up to meet him head-on. 

Stiles waited until she was within arms’ reach, then punched a fist out.

Her knife sliced open his outer arm, but it didn’t register until he saw the blood; the spell wrapped around her, squeezing her flesh tight to her bones, compressing and dehydrating her like it was supposed to.

She struck out again as she was dying, cutting his jaw. Her skin crumbled. 

He snatched the knife and pushed away as she collapsed in on herself, bones and ash. He put a shield up and gasped, clutching the knife to his chest as his heart pounded. His magic was _alive_ now, refueled and ready for battle. He stretched out, feeling for threats. In the back of his mind, he could feel John’s panic, Lydia’s anger, Boyd’s fear. They were searching for them. Stiles took a deep breath and turned toward the threat he could sense, tucking the knife into his belt loop and hoping it would stay. 

An elf with a bleeding gash on his face swam toward him, gaze locked and intense.

Stiles braced to drop the shield and fight, shifting his right foot back.

A weight curled around his ankle. Yellow and white vines were growing, twining up and around his legs like snakes. His chest seized. He choked, bracing his hands against the shield to stay upright. Violent coughs forced his mouth open, ragged and painful.

Blue flower petals tumbled from his lips, forced from his throat. He looked at the elf through watering eyes. 

He was grinning.

Stiles blasted the vines, sucked in a jagged breath, and dropped the shield. He kicked out and blasted at the elf. The shot went wide, hitting a rock formation. The force shoved Stiles back, tumbling no way to steady himself. His throat burned as more flowers forced their way up to his mouth, scraping painfully, leaving his throat raw. He kicked and waved his arms, but he had nothing to brace against when he attacked to keep him from tumbling backward again.

More vines wrapped around him, curling around his arms and torso. 

He looked around wildly as he sank, his head filling with intense pressure. He did a blazing spell out of desperation, up his whole body, singeing the shreds of his shirt, sending the water around him boiling furiously. He snarled and swung around to face the elf. He lifted a fist and squeezed. 

The elf choked.

Stiles imagined the spell with intense detail, picturing what it would do. He put his hand out, fingers together, and sliced. 

The spell cut the elf to pieces, his body falling apart like toppled building blocks. 

Stiles had to look away, chest heaving as he fought the urge to open his mouth. His magic was a wildfire inside of him, the sun, a fiery explosion. He shielded himself and spat out the last of the flowers so he could catch his breath. He looked around, past the cloud of blood, and spotted Wyatt, safely cocooned in the shield Stiles had left him in…unconscious. He would go to him after he caught his breath. He’d have to wake him up and they had to get to safety, then figure out how to find the crew. He wiped under his nose and noticed his arm covered in fresh blood. He made himself look away. As soon as he started noticing his injuries, he wouldn’t be able to ignore them, he knew. 

He took a big breath and dropped the shield, swimming to Wyatt and joining his bubble. He knelt beside him and shut his eyes, building a psychic dart. He layered _danger! Fire! Threat!_ , layered on the fear, the anxiety and adrenaline. _Wake up now,_ he said, _danger!_ He shot the dart deep into Wyatt’s sleeping mind. 

He jolted awake in a panic, gasping and throwing his hands up.

Stiles caught his wrists before he could knock him senseless. “Sorry, that was me, I had to wake you up.” 

Wyatt stared at him, his eyes wide and dark with incomprehension. 

“I know you’re tired, but can you kick? We need to find land.”

He nodded slowly, dazed, and let Stiles pull him to his feet. 

Stiles looped his arm over his shoulders. “Remember to kick, okay? Now take a deep breath.”

Wyatt nodded, drooping against his shoulder. 

Stiles waited until he felt him take a breath to drop the shield. He felt them sinking and his heart lurched, sure they were going to drown as he fought to bring himself and Wyatt’s limp weight to the surface. 

Wyatt grunted beside him, a stream of bubbles coming from his nose, and he began to kick, sluggish at first, picking up speed. He kept his head down and shuddered occasionally, but he kept kicking. 

Stiles didn’t have the energy to be relieved; he just dragged them to the surface, kicking doggedly and keeping Wyatt’s arm tight around his shoulders. His vision pulsed as his body demanded oxygen, wrung out and at its limits. The water grew warmer as they neared the surface, blinded by the overhead sun. 

Stiles sputtered as he broke the surface, catching his breath and trying to keep Wyatt’s head above water. 

Pieces of the boat drifted by, water logged baskets, soggy supplies, and flowers tangled together. A plastic wrapped lifejacket bumped off an empty water bottle and Stiles lunged, swiping at it one handed. He tore the plastic off with his teeth. The color was sun-bleached and it smelled musty and old, but he didn’t care. 

Wyatt dipped under the surface while Stiles was fighting with the plastic and pushed back up, blinking water out of his eyes. 

“Help me. If you put this on, we’ll have an easier time. Come on.” He struggled to get Wyatt’s head through the proper hole while both of them tried to stay above water, but eventually they had him clipped in. “There,” he panted. “Should be easier-”

An elf with wild green hair exploded out of the water, racing for them with a snarl on his face. 

Stiles twisted his wrist.

The elf exploded. 

“Cool,” Wyatt slurred as his eyes slid closed, bobbing along the surface like a corked bottle. 

Stiles put his arm back over his shoulders. “Remember to kick.”

“’Kay,” he muttered. 

The lifejacket made it easier to tow Wyatt along, doing most of the work to keep his head above water while Stiles concentrated on propelling them forward. He could just make out something dark and still in the distance, just above the surface of the water. Whether it was rocks or an isle of some sort, he thought it was their best bet at the moment. The longer they swam, the less debris they saw, which he hoped meant they were leaving both the crash and the elves behind. While his magic was blazing and battle ready, his body was trembling with pain and exhaustion; the fear of drowning and letting Wyatt die was the only thing keeping him going at this point. 

But they were going to make it. They’d find land, regroup, and find the crew. Or the crew would find them. They were already looking, they might find them first. 

Stiles tilted his head back so he could take a deep breath. His heart was beating hard and his legs felt weak and shaky, but Wyatt was nearly unconscious next to him and there were who knew _how_ many elves in the water waiting to attack them. Possibly to kill Wyatt and take Stiles to his death. He sniffed and looked forward again. 

Whatever they were swimming toward was dark gray and lipped, weirdly uniform beyond cracks and algae of the last decade. 

Stiles narrowed his eyes and looked down under the surface. He laughed, spraying water away from his face. 

It was a building, somehow still standing and just tall enough that the roof was above the ocean’s surface. 

Stiles grabbed the lip of the building and braced Wyatt against it, taking a moment. He had to either lift Wyatt up first or climb up and pull him over. It wasn’t very high, but he was exhausted and the task ahead was daunting. 

Wyatt squirmed against Stiles’s hold, breaking free without much effort. He blinked at the building and grabbed the ledge with both hands, dragging himself painstakingly out of the water, shoes bracing against the side. 

Stiles helped—magically, pushing his feet with his telekinetic spell. He had magical energy in spades at the moment. 

Wyatt flopped onto the roof and groaned from out of sight. 

Stiles laughed breathlessly, closing his eyes and tipping his head against the wall. He breathed deeply for a few minutes, preparing himself. All of his cuts and bruises screamed in protest as he pulled himself up, but it was worth it when he was able to sit on something solid and dry. He looked around and found the sun dipping toward the horizon, which meant he was facing west. He looked over the ledge, but the water was too dark to see very far. A glance around showed just blue in every direction, the only variation being stray litter or debris. Crushing hopelessness strangled him. How were they supposed to find everyone? Where were they?

Wyatt sat up and slumped against the ledge, shoving his wet hair out of his eyes. “We can’t be _too_ far from the others,” he said in a raspy, choked voice. “They’ll find us.” His head tipped back, hair nearly trailing into the water. “Or we’ll find them.” His mouth quirked up at the corners. 

Stiles nodded, trying to believe it. He felt at his connections, taking brief comfort from the life thrumming from the four silver strands before focusing on the boat, the older connections. He sent panic darts to Lydia, Boyd, and Asher, but he couldn’t send images, couldn’t show them where he was. He could tell they understood he was alive, though, felt their hope smoothing over him like a balm. Stiles’s heart skipped with excitement.

Asher would be able to see where they were if he dug into Stiles’s mind, if he saw through Stiles’s eyes the way he’d helped Stiles see through Della’s eyes. 

Stiles closed his eyes and opened his mind, fighting the instinct to shield himself, and prodded Asher, encouraging him to look.

Before Asher could do it, ice cold rage jabbed into Stiles’s mind, drilling into his memories. Della exploded into fury when she realized he’d escaped capture and he flinched, gasping aloud and hurling shields around his mind again, hunching over as if he’d taken a physical blow instead of a psychic one. 

“Fucking damn it.” He rubbed his eyes and ran his hands through his hair. He looked toward the setting sun, then up at the darkening sky. “How long until full dark, you think?”

Wyatt’s eyes opened slowly. “Twenty minutes maybe?” His eyes shut again.

Stiles could see him shaking from across the roof and turned away. Twenty minutes. He monitored Boyd, Lydia, and John for a while, drifting from them to Asher, briefly, and then, finally, the Hales. He felt at Laura’s silver cord, then Peter’s, and saved Derek for last, cautiously examining his emotions.

He felt…okay. Some underlying, simmering anger, but he didn’t feel defeated anymore. Determined. 

Good. Stiles started to focus on Boyd again when he noticed a faint, fourth silver connection, one he’d felt but hadn’t registered earlier, struggling to form, fading in and out like a dying light. His brows furrowed as he chased it, plucking at it, trying to get a feel for it, but it faded away again before he could understand it. He opened his eyes and blinked to clear his vision. 

The sky was deep blue and purple like a bruise, darkening by the second.

He stood on shaky legs and opened his hands to the sky. His magic snaked up and out, white fire coiling in his palms and then blazing up. It twisted around like a tornado, a wide column of white flames miles into the sky, a tower, a beacon.

Wyatt gasped. “Whoa,” he croaked. “Impressive.”

Stiles let the spell continue, closing his eyes and feeling the ebb and flow of power completely, turning himself into nothing more than a conduit of magic, out of him, into the tower. It took another twenty minutes to sense relief from Boyd, John, and Lydia. 

Twenty more for the patchwork sails of Ari’s ship to show up, lit by Stiles’s blazing fire in the dark.

When they were close enough that they could hear the crew whooping with victory, Stiles let the flames die and sat down to wait. 

Boyd helped Stiles onboard when the ship got to them, practically dragging him up the ladder. Alden and Jamel fussed over Wyatt like worried, platonic dads. It was kind of adorable and sad at the same time. Stiles watched them while Rosalva was freaking out over the knife wounds on Stiles’s arm and face. He barely noticed when Asher smeared numbing cream over his arm or when Rosalva started stitching up the same arm.

Jamel was frantically apologizing for leaving Wyatt behind while Alden checked him for injuries and Lise forced water down his throat. 

Those elves had almost executed Wyatt because he was in the way. Because they grabbed the wrong guy with Stiles. 

“Here, Stiles, eat something,” Lydia insisted while Boyd was maneuvering him into a dry, clean shirt. She set a plate in his lap. “Rosalva said we need to get you warm, and that you need to eat and drink.” She wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and glanced at Boyd anxiously. “Watch him, I’m going to get some water, you’re dehydrated.” She spoke quickly and in one breath, then darted off. 

Boyd put another blanket over his lap, ignoring the fact that his pants were still soaked.

Stiles shuddered, gaze moving across the boat. 

“No, it was so _cool._ Stiles came up with the plan,” Wyatt boasted. “So the boat was like, spelled to keep him from just blowing it up, right? So he figured out that we could break it by pushing it apart.” He was still trembling with exhaustion, wrapped up tight in several blankets, bandaged, and shakily eating whatever Jamel or Alden handed him. “We both used our powers and tore the ship apart.” He didn’t mention the elves wanting to kill him to get him off their hands or how he’d fainted and had to be dragged to safety. 

Stiles wondered how much of his childishness, the way he told the story as if it were a great adventure, was calculated to protect the people around him, to save them the worry of knowing how scared he actually was. Jamel had said he had nightmares, so they clearly knew, but he must have always been putting on an act, like nothing affected him, like he wasn’t entirely aware of how close he’d come to being put to death. 

Stiles exhaled and picked at his food.

John sat beside him. “How bad was it?” He was watching Wyatt as well, looking tired and older than he should.

Stiles flicked his gaze toward Boyd, then sighed. “Same as usual. They were trying to deliver us to Della so she could steal our magic. They thought Wyatt was Asher. Tried to kill us a few times after we wrecked the boat. You know.” He picked at the fish on his plate, eating without tasting.

John nodded slowly. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” He ached everywhere, his socks were soaked and he would give a limb to take his boots off, he was so tired his eyes burned, but he was alive and so was Wyatt; he was with Lydia, Boyd, and John again. He leaned his head on John’s shoulder. They were okay.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are closing in on the end and I am still not done with the third one, which means there will be a gap between postings--I'm guessing later in November, possibly early December is when I will begin posting the third one. But we have to finish this one first anyway. Enjoy! <3

Stiles grumbled to himself as his boot slid under more sand, just far enough for it to get into his boot. Again. The sun gleamed above them, unwavering and punishing. The heat was dry and intense, lacking the humidity Stiles was getting used to on the ocean, sucking the life from them one drop of sweat at a time. 

Ari glanced back at him with a little smirk, skating over the top of the sand like her boots somehow weren’t touching it at all. It wasn’t fair. 

They’d found a city, sort of, and Ari wanted to search it for supplies and weapons. The city itself was _not_ promising, covered in sand as far as Stiles could see with intense heat waving off of it and dry, rough air that felt like they were inhaling ground glass. The sand was burned gold and rose in peaks and valleys, a precarious landscape made worse by the slippery nature of the sand itself. 

They’d come in from the water, obviously, using a bridge Stiles had made from ice; he was getting better at it, he thought. The path had stretched from ladder to land and had stayed in place rather than branching out, the surface just crunchy enough to make it easy to walk on. Now if only he could figure out how to make it for _domestic_ use, he could help cool everyone down under the blinding sun that was currently cooking them. He glanced ahead at John and Boyd, then to the side at Lydia and Asher. Everyone was flushed and sweating already. 

He put his hand up at waist height and flicked his fingers, but ice simply formed on his fingertips. He kept practicing as they clambered through the sand, but it kept turning out wrong. Stiles clenched his jaw and pushed harder, and gasped when ice spikes shot out of a sand dune, nearly knocking Ripley off his feet. “Sorry!” He waved his hands, shattering the spikes.

Ripley picked up one of the shards, hissed, and dropped it, shaking his fingers. “That _burned._ ”

“Yeah, it’s not good for holding barehanded.” He kicked a shard away and nearly slipped in the sand, letting out a frustrated snarl.

“I could try to show you,” Asher offered, slowing so he was walking beside Stiles. 

He wanted to refuse, because Asher seemed to be better than him at everything _but_ battle magic, but that was just pride. Better to learn from someone who knew what they were doing anyway. “Yes, please,” he sighed. At least he’d know how to practice it.

Lydia lengthened her stride so she was walking with John and Boyd.

Asher held his hand out, palm up, fingers curled loosely and twitching. It started with a little white flurry that turned his hand pale blue for a moment, curling and twisting together, solidifying into cubes of ice. He passed two to Stiles and gave the others to Ripley, who popped them right into his mouth.

Stiles used the magic humming from the ice cubes in his hand as a blueprint, following Asher’s steps. It wasn’t really that easy, but it was a start, something to guide his magic. He felt a brief, faint stirring in his empty hand, and then ice shot up into the air like crystalline missiles. He cursed and threw a wide shield around everyone as the ice crashed back down.

“Good try!” Asher put his hand out. “Follow along this time instead.”

Stiles put his own hand out, glowering at the melting cubes. Stupid, dainty domestic magic. He focused on Asher’s magic, watching and feeling along. The path felt uncomfortable, like a pair of too-small shoes, and he rebelled automatically, his magic straining in the other direction. He forced himself to follow Asher, sense the spell, and shoot a _thin_ stream of magic into it. Cold air gathered in his palm.

The spell wasn’t hard, it shouldn’t have been difficult, but it swirled where Stiles’s spells typically exploded, slid where his dug in, and it was like turning left when he _knew_ to go right. Ice fired out of his palm. “ _Fuck._ ” He closed his hands, nails biting into his skin. “Maybe we should try something else,” he said through his teeth.

Asher nodded. “You could show me your blasting spell.”

Stiles scoffed. “You basically already learned it when we were dealing with the corals.” 

Up ahead, Boyd hesitated, but Lydia tugged his arm, keeping him moving. 

Jamel, Wyatt, Nadine, and Rosalva were the only ones who’d stayed on the ship—Wyatt was still worn down, not that he’d admit it, and Jamel and Nadine could run the ship if anything happened. Stiles had tried to get John and Lydia, at least, to stay, but no one wanted Stiles or his danger-magnet ass going anywhere alone. Which he figured was fair, given all the incidents. 

He twisted the cuff on his arm, something he realized he’d been doing a lot, reassuring himself that it was still there and keeping him out of Della’s reach. She couldn’t find him _yet._

“That wasn’t really the same spell,” Asher said, drawing Stiles’s attention back to their conversation. “It was me trying to recreate the spell that I saw, and it wasn’t even half as strong.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Stiles muttered. 

Asher rolled his eyes. “Stiles, I had access to the world’s largest collection of spells, I know powerful and I have _no_ need to flatter you.” He smiled widely. “But if you want, I can give it a try.”

“Ugh, no, that’s creepy.”

Ripley laughed, walking backward so he could see the expression Asher was making. 

“Thanks so much for that. Okay, what about a preservation spell? You seem good at those but I only have one, and it’s only good for vegetables, which is annoying.” He stepped on something that clanged under his boot and hesitated, sweeping sand aside with his foot. Something dark gray gleamed beneath the sand, scratched and dented. 

Stiles glanced ahead where John and Lydia were talking and Boyd and Lise were playing rock-paper-scissors over something. Ari was with Alden at the front of their uneven train, leading the way to the buildings in the distance. “Okay, fine. What do you want to preserve?”

Asher looked up from whatever he’d stepped on. “Oh, meat, maybe fruit…anything. I mean, I can make ice to keep it fresh, but is there always going to be somewhere I can store things in ice?” He shrugged, looking anxious suddenly. 

“I got a preservation spell from another witch a while ago that works on containers.” Stiles spent a while teaching the spell to Asher, who, as predicted, caught on within a few minutes. They didn’t really have anything to practice on, so there were going to be a few well preserved piles of sand for the foreseeable future. “This would be so much easier if I had a Book of Shadows,” he grumbled.

Asher ran his hand through his hair, making it stand up with sweat. “I _know_. I lost mine in the bombs,” he admitted. “I saved quite a few others from the collective but mine and—and my mother’s got lost in the rubble.” He looked down, picking at his fingernails.

Stiles faced forward. “I lost my mom’s, too. She, uh, left it to me—she died before the bombs—and- I mean, she never submitted any of it to the collective.”

Asher nodded, still looking at his hands. He inhaled and visibly pulled himself together, shoulders going back, chin lifting. “It would be nice to be able to start a new one, even, with all the spells we’re learning and creating.” 

“I wish pens were easier to come by,” Stiles said wistfully as they caught up to the others, who seemed to have slowed down.

Boyd snorted.

Lydia grinned. “You guys will have to fight for any pens you do find.” She jostled Stiles lightly with her elbow.

He glanced sideways at Boyd, thinking of his book full of names of the dead, and shrugged. “Maybe.”

“There are plants we can use to make magical ink,” Asher mused. “Spells to make paper from sugarcane without the chemicals, but I’d need practice.”

Stiles teased, “ _Barely,_ ” and Ripley laughed. 

“Keep up, guys,” Ari called over her shoulder. “I think I see the sand receding a little. We’re almost-” She dropped through the sand with a scream. 

Stiles’s heart jumped with panic; everyone raced forward, skidding through the hot, gritty sand. He grabbed John’s arm, yanking him to a stop before he could tumble into the crumbling hole Ari had fallen into. They looked down cautiously.

Ari was getting up, shaking sand out of her hair and off her clothes. “What the hell?” She turned a circle, then looked up at them.

Ripley guffawed. 

It looked like she’d fallen into the basement of a long gone building with cement floors and piles of sand surrounding her. She crouched and jumped, wings snapping out on her way up. She landed about twenty feet away, stumbling in the sand. “You all suck,” she snapped, stalking toward them with her wings arced out like an angry, disheveled demon. “What if I’d gotten injured?”

“You have sand in your hair,” Ripley laughed. 

She snorted smoke out of her nose at his face, but it just made him laugh harder. “I think it’s safe to say tread lightly.” She eyed them all. “Maybe we should link arms since most of you can’t fly.”

Alden rolled his eyes skyward and shook his head, but obligingly looped his arm through Ripley’s. 

“We could jump out if we fell,” Lise pointed out, skittering away from Ari’s offered elbow. “Werewolves, remember? Just because we can’t fly doesn’t mean we’re useless.” She glanced at Lydia and Boyd. “No offense.”

Lydia smiled sharply. “We all have our strengths.”

Stiles pressed his palms to his cheeks, which felt hot and sticky with sweat. “I’m gonna get a sunburn,” he mumbled. He cast a sun shield, but it was probably too late to save him from being burned. His face, ears, and the top of his head felt tender and stiff, like he’d spent a long day at the pool.

John rubbed the back of his neck; he looked okay, maybe a little flushed, but no more than anyone else shuffling along with them. 

The sand was getting lower, like it was sloping, and Stiles could see more buildings start to appear, rising out of the sand like brick-colored cacti. It wasn’t long before they were in a city proper, with sand scattered through the streets and scorch marks from set-off cars. 

“So what are we looking for, exactly?” Stiles asked. 

Ari shrugged, her gaze sweeping over the car husks. “I have a taste for something other than fish and eggs.”

“So we’re hunting?”

“And scavenging.” She didn’t look at any of them, curling smirk in place, like she knew they were staring at her.

Stiles wondered whether Ari’s true motive was to goad Della into confronting her directly, so she could slap back at her for the attack on Mad Hollow. He wouldn’t be surprised, but it irritated him that she hadn’t clued the rest of them in on her plan, if that was it.

They all shook sand off as they hit pavement—or mostly pavement, there was still sand everywhere, just marginally less. 

“Let’s fan out,” Ari suggested. “Cover more ground, see what we see.”

The buildings were smaller and closer together than Stiles was used to, and the cars all seemed to be facing the wrong direction, at least he thought so until he saw a sign bent at an almost ninety degree angle that wasn’t in English, banged up by whatever had caused all the sand. 

Lydia brushed her fingers over it. “It’s in Dutch,” she observed, and looked over at some of the stores to her left. “Huh.” 

Stiles and John both looked back at the deep burned gold sand behind them, baffled. Even after all they’d seen, things like this seemed so strange and impossible still.

“The bombs shifted everything,” Boyd reminded them quietly.

Stiles began picking at his knuckle scabs, nervous and twitchy. “And here I am without my passport,” he joked, and got a weak laugh out of the others. 

Things like this really drove home how not okay the world was. The mutated animals, the constant fight for survival, made it real, but this…reminded him of what once was and what never would be again, the things he’d never seen, places he’d never been, and wouldn’t be able to ever. It was exhausting.

“Hey,” Lise called out suddenly. “Look! Butcher shop!” She broke away from the group. 

Alden sighed and followed her at a sedate pace.

Stiles looked up at a building that was maybe once a clothing store, with busted out windows and spiny white plants growing out of the door. They had a weird, distinct lack of hum, a magical void while everything else had at least a light hum just from the bombs. Stiles moved closer, curious. 

Lise and Alden returned while he was prodding them—magically—carrying knives and cleavers. “Weapons,” Lise declared, her round face lit with glee. “They’re sharp, too, everything was immaculate in there. I mean, you know, comparatively.” She knelt and swung her backpack off her shoulders. “You’d have to get close to use these, but can you imagine the damage Wyatt could do with these from afar?” She flicked her fingers and Stiles chuckled, both because it looked like she was shaking water off her hands after washing them _and_ because that was probably how he and Asher looked doing spells. 

“I bet,” Ari said, hands on her hips. She turned in a circle, jaw clenching as she scanned the buildings. 

Stiles cast his senses, but his attention was again caught by the void plant, which was by far the most interesting thing in this sand city. He couldn’t sense danger, but after he and Wyatt had been snatched, he didn’t _really_ trust his ability to detect threats. There was less nature for elves to hide in here, but that might not mean anything anymore. 

“Hey,” John said in a quiet, tense voice that instantly raised Stiles’s red flags. 

A buck was picking its way closer to them, meandering around vehicles like it somehow knew they would be dangerous if they hadn’t already been activated. Its antlers were obsidian-black, gleaming in the sun and ending in sharp points. 

Everyone braced, all attention abruptly fixed on the deer. 

“Its herd is far away,” Alden said quietly. “He’s alone.” 

Lise growled from where she was crouched, the muscles of her face rippling as she fell into a half-shift. She crawled forward over her bag, a weird, wolf-like movement. 

Stiles remembered Peter with a pang and tried to hide his wince. “Hey,” he said quietly, “I can help you catch it.”

She tilted her head up at him. “Really?”

“Yeah. It breathes fire, right?”

“Usually.”

“Then yeah. Come on.” He flexed his fingers and smiled automatically; like flicking off water. 

The deer lowered his head when Stiles got too close, snorting noisily. When it opened its mouth, fire pouring forth, Stiles blew ice crystals at the stream of flames. 

Lise lunged when the fire turned to steam and the buck, used to its fire warding off predators, didn’t even have time to flinch before she’d torn its throat out. She sat back while it bled out, looking satisfied. “Dinner.” She grinned at the rest of them.

“Oh, good. Then you can carry it back,” Alden muttered. He moved down the sidewalk, peering into buildings as he passed. He was sniffing for something, but Stiles couldn’t imagine what. 

Lise glowered at him, then at the deer, hands on her hips. She sighed. “I might as well take it back now,” she grumbled.

“Alone? Maybe Ripley should go with you,” Ari suggested. 

“No thanks, I can manage.” She brushed her bright hair out of her face and hefted the buck over her shoulders, spattering blood across her cheek.

“Well, that ought to scare off anyone wanting to mess with you,” Boyd teased. 

Lise bared her fangs in a grin before setting off toward the ship, barely seeming to notice the weight on her back.

Alden made a triumphant noise and emerged from a shop on the corner, clutching a small, black box in his hands. He held it up. “Found some colored pencils. They’re mine,” he added sharply when Ari started to speak.

She held her hands up. “You can just _say_ you’re giving them to Wyatt, Mama Bear.” 

Alden glared at him and tucked the box away in his bag. “I might be using it for the kitchen.” 

“Sure,” Ripley snickered. He looked over his shoulder, grinning, and hesitated, then went tense. “Asher?”

Ari followed his gaze.

Stiles looked at Lydia and John, but they both shook their heads, worried. 

Boyd called out, “Asher?” and stepped around the burned frame of a car, peering into an alley.

Ari set her jaw and rolled her shoulders back. “ _Asher!_ ” Her voice echoed off the buildings around them, carrying far enough that they probably heard it on the boat.

There was a beat of buzzing silence, and then— “ _What?!_ ” 

Ari snarled and stomped past John and Stiles to the building where Asher’s voice had come from, arms held rigidly at her sides. “Why did you wander off alone? You scared us!”

He popped out of the door before she could reach it. “I’m _barely_ twenty feet away, don’t yell at me, and this is why.” He showed them the book he had, shaking sand off the cover. “There were some preserved jars in there, too. I grabbed them. There was a witch here at some point.” He brushed his fingers over the cover of the book, clearly a journal, possibly a Book of Shadows. “I can’t read it here, but I can feel the magic coming off of it.”

Stiles looked around the street with fresh eyes, and for the first time wondered if the sand was from a backfired spell instead of just the bombs. The building Asher had come out of looked like a store, but that didn’t mean anything—the witch could’ve worked there before the bombs, maybe just idly jotting down spells while working a slow shift, when the collective sent out the summons. Had they tried to protect the town, or had they attacked the bombs? Did it matter? It clearly hadn’t worked. 

“Come on,” Ari said. “We’d better keep moving.” 

Asher turned the book over in his hands a couple times before swinging his bag around to tuck it away. “Yeah, I guess we’d better.” He looked at the building thoughtfully. 

They walked deeper into the city in a loose group. The heat seemed to intensify the further in they got, which resulted in all of them drinking a ton of water and immediately sweating it back out. Stiles cast another sun shield as they passed a smoldering yard and slowed to look at it. 

It was filled with piles of bones and ash. There wasn’t any more heat coming from the yard than anywhere else, but smoke still rose from the bones, embers glinting from the blades of grass like dew drops. The sand seemed to have missed that yard in particular, but had piled up around the edges of it. Stiles and Asher glanced at each other as everyone edged past it; they could both sense the magic in the bones, the embers. The bones were once witches, who had most likely died trying to save this city from the bombs. They mutually and silently decided not to say anything to the others, although the look on Lydia’s face made it clear that she, at least, had realized on her own.

“Oh, wait,” Alden blurted. “We shouldn’t go this way.” He backpedaled, one arm going out to keep Ari from plowing ahead anyway. 

“Why? What is it?” She shoved his arm out of the way and took a single step forward before freezing. “Oh.” 

Stiles leaned left to see around her and shuddered.

There was a scorpion-shaped something in the distance, holding what looked like a deer in its giant pinchers, tail tense and poised to strike the deer should it attempt to escape. It looked limp and very, very dead in its grasp. The scorpion itself was entirely too large, taller than them, bigger than a horse, big enough to take down a deer on its own. 

“Okay,” Ari breathed, “let’s…back away from the giant, uh, scorpion.” She waved her hands behind her, shooing them. 

“Where?” Ripley hissed. “We’ll be exposed if we just go back the way we came, what if it notices us?”

Lydia seized Stiles’s arm and pointed. 

He saw the side street and nodded. “Get them?” he mouthed. He grabbed Boyd and John and ushered them to the street. 

It was narrow and packed with cars that hadn’t been set off yet, clearly, given they were whole and the buildings closest to them had minimal damage. John looked at the cars, then Stiles, wide eyed. He shook his head, but Stiles slipped away, waving his hand at Ripley to get his attention.

Ripley lifted a brow at him.

Stiles pointed at the side street where Lydia was hovering and sighed with relief when he immediately caught Alden and Asher’s attention. 

Ari glanced over when Asher muttered her name. “You guys go,” she whispered. “I’m going to keep an eye on it, just…I’ll be fine,” she added.

The scorpion was ripping apart the deer, so Stiles figured they were all fine unless it noticed them, and he didn’t plan to stick around long enough to _be_ noticed. 

John caught his arm when he was within reach. “Don’t do that,” he hissed. “They can _fly,_ they’re fine.”

Ripley nodded sagely, so Stiles flipped him off. 

“Look, if we can get to the end, I think it opens up onto another main road,” Lydia whispered. “But we have to get past these cars first _and_ hope that that thing doesn’t notice us. We can argue about who’s being more of an idiot later.”

Stiles’s gaze skipped from Alden to John to Boyd. “Okay, Asher, you should take the lead.” He kept his voice low. “If we all walk close together, we should be able to throw a shield up if any of the cars go off. I’ll take up the rear be-”

“Stiles-” Boyd started. 

“-cause I have the most firepower if the scorpion comes after us. And with us bookending you guys, we can shield the group more effectively.” 

Asher nodded. “He’s right. That scorpion has armored skin,” he added. “I think it’s the exoskeleton.”

“I can handle it,” Stiles muttered. “You just worry about the cars.”

“Got it.” 

They formed a tight ball, walking in twos, with Alden and Ripley right behind Asher and Boyd and John closest to Stiles, Lydia in the middle. Stiles hoped Ari caught up to them soon; it felt weird to leave her behind. He flexed his fingers and rotated his wrists, shaking out strain as they crept along in the center of the road. Tension sparked throughout the group, palpable, heavy, and made Stiles’s hands feel clammy. His heart was rabbiting in his chest and his vision felt wobbly, shoulders tight with anxiety. He swallowed dryly and tried to focus but found himself turning inward, plucking at his connections one at a time, seeking out the source of his unease. 

He rubbed sweat off his forehead and grimaced; he was hot, but his skin felt chilled and damp. The back of his neck was tight. He rolled it, trying to loosen the muscles. His throat was dry. 

Boyd and John were further ahead than he was expecting when he looked up, and he realized he’d slowed to a shuffle, leaving them unprotected. He lengthened his stride to catch up, careful not to let his boots hit the ground too hard, and then he froze, struck by—

By Laura’s pain, reverberating through his bones, deep, too deep to concentrate, Derek’s fury howling like a storm in his head, and Peter…Peter’s _fear_ , intense and smothering. They were in danger, they were scared and hurt and trapped.

Panic caught Stiles by the throat, rooting him in place, wide eyed but unseeing. What could be so terrible that it _scared_ Peter instead of infuriated him? He had to see, had to check…had to help. He reached out, desperate to protect them, to help them—his chest was too tight to breathe, his vision swam with the heat and the terror. 

They were being taken; he couldn’t see, could only feel, but—they were being taken, they’d be killed…Peter was in _chains._ Stiles had to help, he had to help them, he had to do something or they –

_**BOOM!** _

“Move!” Ari shouted. The ground rocked. 

Footsteps pounded around him but all he could see was the wavering, translucent image of Derek fighting to free himself from…from something, of Peter bound in chains and bleeding while they strained for Laura, who was—who was…there was blood—

Stiles collapsed to his knees and felt his magic surge, hotter and brighter than he’d ever felt it, flying out of him from his center, torn from his chest and limbs. His heart burst in his chest and power ripped free. Around him, explosions rocked the ground like an earthquake. Smoke filled the air until it was nothing but shrapnel and debris. 

The Hales felt bewildered, but safe. 

Stiles yanked himself back as he realized it. He flopped over his knees, energy sapped. He fell into himself as he went limp; he was hurting everywhere, covered in tiny bleeding cuts and one big gash throbbing across his shoulder. He managed to turn his head and saw that the cars were smoldering and smoking, and—

He sat up straight, gasping, but couldn’t see anyone, couldn’t see bodies or blood. He flung his senses out. He felt John, Boyd, and Lydia huddled together somewhere to his left, Ari and Ripley to the right, Asher and Alden further up the street. Alive. He folded himself back and remained on the ground, listening to the grit settle. Blood slid down his cheek from his head. 

Boots crunched over the sand and glass closest to him. “What the fuck was that?” Ari asked. 

Stiles slowly, slowly sat up, bracing his shaking hands on his legs to keep himself propped up. The road was pocked with craters where the cars had gone off, smoking and cloudy with debris. His heart thumped as the others crept out of their hiding places; Boyd had a cut on his face and John was covered in what looked like plaster; Ripley’s neck was bleeding and Lydia looked like she’d fallen, the knees of her pants ripped and bloody. Asher and Alden emerged last.

“ _That_ ,” Asher said, “was what the collective wanted from all of us.” His expression was strange, thoughtful and fearful at once. 

“It didn't work,” Stiles said dully. “It was never going to work.” Wasn’t supposed to work.

“Of course not. I tried to tell them that, plenty of us tried to tell them.” He eyed Stiles curiously, though, his fog-colored eyes unreadable.

Stiles looked down. He’d never had _that_ much power before. He knew he had plenty of firepower, but that was…insane. Doing magic from this far away, with no visual, was unthinkable. He wondered…but it wasn’t possible, not after ten years, was it? He swallowed and wondered if the bombs were still mutating them, somehow. It would explain this episode at least, and it would explain why everyone’s powers seemed capable of things they hadn’t known they could do suddenly. 

Stiles tentatively reached out to the Hales again, half convinced he’d imagined the whole thing. 

They seemed out of danger, just completely baffled by what’d just happened…So was Stiles. 

He wished he could _see_ what’d been threatening them, what’d made them so afraid, but he could only sense them, not what was around them. 

“Hey,” Boyd said quietly. “Come on. We should go back to the ship.” He crouched in front of Stiles, the angle of his brows expressing the concern his voice hid. The cut on his cheek looked deep, bleeding sluggishly. 

Stiles shook his head. “No, I’m fine, but you should go.” He swiped at the blood running into his eye. “Um. Sorry, guys.”

“It’s okay,” Asher said slowly. “But you _should_ go back to the ship. That was a huge amount of magic and even though you somehow survived those explosions with nothing more than a few cuts, you’re still injured.”

Stiles looked at them, the tense, frightened expressions of the group. “Okay,” he mumbled. “But I—Dad?”

“Yeah, I’m coming back with you. Can’t be without my bodyguard, right?”

“You can pay me in food,” he said dryly. 

John scrubbed a hand over Stiles’s head affectionately, brushing his fingers over the cut hidden by his hair and making him flinch. “Come on, boys. We need to get you two patched up anyway.”

Stiles glanced over his shoulder as they were shuffling away and met Lydia’s shrewd gaze for a moment before looking away. He thought about the chains on Peter, the terrified feeling of being utterly trapped, and wondered if Della had finally focused her sights on them. She was going after the people around him now. She’d almost had Wyatt killed, had tried to grab the Hales, and had killed everyone in Mad Hollow to punish Ari. 

Stiles had to get away from everyone before he got them _all_ killed. 

“Hey,” Boyd said as they crept onto the main road they’d vacated in the first place. “Looks like your explosions scared off the scorpion.”

“I hope so,” Stiles muttered. “Otherwise it’s going to be a very exciting trip back to the ship.”

John’s hand jumped to his gun, which made Stiles feel guilty for the joke.

“Hang on a second.” He closed his eyes, resting a hand on Boyd’s shoulder to keep himself steady, and cast his senses. He could feel the group behind them, and something smaller and friendly a few streets over. It seemed like the scorpion _had_ fled; no predator energy anywhere. “We should be okay.”

“Then let’s not linger.”

Stiles let them walk ahead of him, just in case.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting close to the end! I'll probably be posting the last two chapters sometime in the next week or so because I want the whole story to be up!

Laura lifted her head, breathing loudly, ears ringing as she knelt, covered in blood and goo. She lowered her arms and saw Derek blinking, stunned, a few feet away. 

He was drenched in blood and other chunky bits, hair plastered down, his wounds healing sluggishly as she watched. His gaze flickered and Laura looked.

Peter was frozen, too, still chained in icy, flowery manacles. 

Her arms throbbed, reminding her of the wolfsbane woven net she was caught in. She ripped it off, growling and ignoring the burns, and flung it to the side. Blood dripped over her eye and down her chin. The elves that had attacked them were currently spattered all over the clearing. That blast, the overwhelming heat, intense…protection. 

Derek shook the wolfsbane off his face and scrambled over to pull the netting off Laura’s legs. 

The elves had strapped her down with the net, using the wolfsbane to overpower her rather than trying to fight her themselves. They’d grown it with their power, but it was strange, stronger, blisteringly painful on contact, and just… _agonizing_ ; it had listened to the elves’ commands like a well-trained dog. 

Derek finally ripped the last of it off her legs and brushed at the wounds worriedly. 

Laura flopped backwards, breathing hard and shuddering as the burns healed. She rubbed blood out of her eye and stared up for a moment while her entire body throbbed. She felt like a fresh burn herself, raw and painful.

Derek whimpered, making her look up sharply.

Peter was fighting at his chains; they were ice and spellwork, wolfsbane and metal, leaving raw wounds on his neck and wrists. 

Laura leaped up, slipping in blood in her mad scramble to help him. Her hands were still blistered and oozing but Peter was in _chains._ She shoved Derek out of the way and caught Peter’s left wrist, working her fingers under the cuff. The ice and wolfsbane _burned_ , made it feel like she was holding her hand in front of a blowtorch, but she just gritted her teeth and squeezed as hard as she could, pulling until she warped the metal, snapping the clasp. She did the same to the other, and by the time she reached for the thick collar around his throat, her fingers were torn apart and slick with blood again. 

Derek moved around Peter and grabbed the collar from behind, meeting Laura’s eyes over his head. He nodded. 

Peter’s breath hissed as they began pulling, eyes squeezing shut, face draining of color as pain bit through him. 

Laura felt her fangs growing, jaw shifting as her teeth sharpened. Her arms tensed and she threw her whole weight back.

The collar snapped at last and Laura crumpled to the ground. Her cheek landed in a warm puddle that reeked of death. She closed her eyes, letting out a slow breath between her dry lips. She felt Peter prodding her, checking over the still bleeding wounds she had, but she didn’t have the energy to bat him away, just lay there shuddering. She was in pain and scared. She’d woken up as the elves were ambushing them, but they were outnumbered no matter what she did to fight them. She’d seen them get a chain around Peter’s neck and had lost it, tearing apart four elves before the others had dropped that wolfsbane net on her, and the pain was all-consuming; she’d had run-ins with wolfsbane before but this…this was new. 

Derek had roared as he fought, but the elves were so focused on dragging Peter away and subduing Laura that they’d shoved him aside. Then—a moment of pure, raw pain, Derek shouting, Peter too weighted by the chains to help, pinnacle hopelessness… _boom._ The elves had exploded like overfilled water balloons. 

Peter’s prodding became more urgent, plucking at her shirt, annoying her. 

She batted at him finally and her breath whooshed out of her, pain rippling through her. Oh. Oh, she’d been stabbed, that was why Derek had been shouting, why everything had felt so lost. A knife coated in the powerful wolfsbane, plunged into her back. 

Peter and Derek turned her over with careful hands, turning her chin so she wasn’t face down in the dirt. 

She shuddered as they pulled the shirt away from her wound, exposing it to the open air. She breathed through her nose as everything became hazy, her mind drifting away from the pain, back to before, the terror. The explosion. It’d been familiar. 

Something hissed and sputtered, wood smoke drifting over the stench of blood.

That explosion was Stiles’s doing. She _knew_ it was Stiles, it had to be, but how? How had he saved them? He wasn’t _here,_ was she losing it? But she knew the scent and feel of his magic, and it _was_ his.

Her lower back lit up with hot, bright pain and she cried out, clutching at Peter’s arms while Derek burned the poison out. When it finally stopped, she drooped, panting and blinking tears out of her eyes. “Thank you, Derek,” she sniffled. She sat up on her knees carefully, though she was already feeling better now that the poison had been burned out, allowing her body to heal. She kept her grip on Peter’s arms, trying to keep her own hands from trembling. 

“How did that happen?” 

She looked over at Derek, the blood spattered across his face, and knew he wasn’t talking about the stab wound. She didn’t want to tell him what she thought—what she _knew_ had happened, but she couldn’t lie. She inhaled. “Stiles. I think he protected us somehow.”

Peter’s grip flexed on her arm with surprise. 

Derek glowered at her. “That’s impossible.”

“What else? Those elves _exploded._ Unless you suddenly developed magic?”

He looked away. “Maybe it was _you._ ”

“What?”

“Well, you just broke chains with your bare hands. Magical chains. Peter couldn’t even do that, and he’s an alpha, too.”

“It was Stiles.” She knew it. She wiped blood off her face. She knew Derek didn’t want to talk or think about Stiles, but that didn’t mean she was wrong. “Do either of you know what they wanted?”

Peter rubbed his throat where it was still red and looked away. 

Derek huffed and said, grudgingly, “They obviously wanted Peter.”

Laura nodded. “Right. The chains, the spellwork.” She rubbed her eyes. “I’m sorry, guys.”

“Why?” Derek glanced at Peter. 

“It has to be that witch, and she’s got to be after us because I took us up north, and she got a look at-”

Derek scoffed. “Don’t be so full of yourself.”

Her jaw dropped. “W-what?”

He rolled his eyes at Peter. “As if everything is about you, please. Aren’t we going south?” he asked abruptly, straightening his shoulders. Something thick and gray slid off his left shoulder. 

Laura stared at him. “Um,” she said eventually, “I was _stabbed._ ”

“You’re the alpha, it was _one_ stab wound. Come on, get up, we’re losing daylight. We’ll never get there if we don’t keep moving.”

Laura laughed, caught off guard, and allowed Derek to urge her and Peter to their feet, then away from the carnage. 

He grabbed their bags himself, shook off as much of the gore as he could, and caught up. “I’ll just carry these for now,” he said loftily, making Laura smile. 

They were all too exhausted to go far, but they couldn’t rest where they were anyway. They shambled on just long enough to find a stream to wade through and shed their clothes on the opposite bank, shifting and leaving them in the mud. Laura felt a little less broken like this, in her fur, more in control, even carrying her backpack in her mouth like a retriever. 

Derek bumped his snout against her shoulder, then under her chin. 

They only walked a little further before finding a cool, shallow cave to hunker down in. They pushed their bags up against the back wall and curled up together in a warm pile, with Laura closest to the opening. 

As she was falling asleep, she thought of Stiles saving them. He still cared. Maybe they’d all find each other again. She licked Derek’s ear and set her head down on his neck, closing her eyes with a long sigh.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay the end is coming just so much faster than I expected. I will probably post the last chapter very soon, just so the whole story is up, even though I'm not as far ahead as I'd like to be. :/ I will probably have an estimated posting date for the third one in the notes of the last chapter. Hope you enjoy! <3

Stiles woke slowly, dragging himself painstakingly out of Della’s dreams. He was warm and comfortable, all of his wounds carefully tended and bandaged, but in his head was the suffocating, smothering weight of Della’s mind as she dreamt, somehow pulling him along for the ride. She was dreaming of revenge, of death in the most gleeful of detail: skinning the crew, the ones she’d seen through Nadine’s eyes, in Stiles’s mind, destroying their ship, killing John slowly, with knives. He was still tangled up in her thoughts, his eyes too heavy to open, his limbs dead and limp. 

_She’d almost had the alpha with the unusual shift, he’d been so close to hers, but her elves had failed._ She was not used to being denied what she wanted when she wanted it and this failure, among the rest, enraged her, made her sleeping mind restless, furious, lashing out. 

Stiles lifted up on his elbows, wobbling but managing to open his eyes. His head gave a nasty throb, as if he hadn’t slept at all. He was nauseous from the dreams, the violence in them, and he was…alone in the room. He squinted at John’s empty bed and remembered him waking Stiles to say he was going to get breakfast; Stiles had merely muttered that he was tired and dropped back into sleep. He rubbed his eyes. He recalled a spell, vaguely, that he’d seen in Della’s mind, something she was creating, something dangerous. Psychic magic of some kind, and it had delighted her. 

He rolled onto his back and let out a long breath, staring at the bunk above him. He had to come up with some kind of plan, a strategy. He was tired of being the prey, tired of people around him being targeted. He brushed his fingers over the cool metal of his cuff and shifted his feet. He was her target—and so was any witch, really, but—she had a direct line to his mind somehow. He blew out a breath. He had to get his thoughts in some kind of order if he wanted to come up with a plan, one that would actually work. 

What he knew was that Della had tried to abduct both him and Asher so she could kill them and steal their magic. She had elves serving her, had somehow convinced them to follow her and do her bidding. She was trying to take over by stamping out anyone powerful enough to threaten her, which meant, on some level, she was afraid of the other witches around her. And she truly believed she had the right to rule. 

Stiles massaged his forehead, hoping to ease his headache. He needed to warn the Queen of the South about Della; so far, Della was too afraid of losing to go after her yet, but she wouldn’t stand a chance if Della stole Stiles and Asher’s magic _and_ ambushed her. Before that, he needed to make sure Della left the crew of this ship, who had helped Stiles and John in many ways, and who harbored two of the people Stiles cared most about in the world, alone. Since she had a vendetta against Asher—or his mother, but she’d died during the bombs, so Asher would do, apparently—getting her to leave them alone would be difficult, if not impossible, unless he did something. 

He needed bait. He got out of bed and flicked his fingers at the candles around the cabin, lighting them. He had to leave so he could draw her away. It was why he’d left the Hales, after all, and why he’d wanted to find a safe place to leave John since the beginning. After finding Boyd and Lydia, he’d gotten comfortable, let himself think he could stay, but he was just prolonging the inevitable. 

He took a deep breath, bracing a hand on the bunk next to him. He needed to remind Della that she hated him more than Asher, more than Ari, so she’d chase him when he left instead of them. He closed his eyes and prepared a psychic dart. It was the one psychic spell he knew he could do well, over a distance, no visual or touch required. He taunted her, laughed at her, _you’ll never get me, you’re not powerful enough_. Then he let it go, flying along their strange mental link and striking. He smiled when he felt her incandescent rage and threw shields up around his mind. 

He wasn’t great at mental shields beyond the normal instinctive ones, but they seemed to hold, because despite her rage battering at him, she couldn’t get in. 

Good.

He shook himself and grabbed his bag, unzipping it all the way so he could pack it with essentials. He refolded his clean clothes, rolling them tightly and tucking them around jars of potions and packed food. One of the jars clanked loudly. He stuck his hand in the bag, skimming his fingers around to feel for what’d knocked into the jar and found something smooth and heavy. He lifted it out and peered at it in the dim light of the candles. The rock the mermaid had given him, ridged side down. He frowned at it for a moment before putting it back in his bag, wrapped in a shirt. He swiped his blanket and folded it in half, then began rolling it up as tightly as he could. It would take up more space than he wanted to spare, but it’d be worth it when it decided to snow or something when he was trying to sleep. 

The door burst open.

He yelped and leaped back, hands flying up to cast. 

Boyd and Lydia stalked into the room side by side; Boyd took one look at Stiles’s partially-packed bag and shook his head. 

Lydia said, “Told you,” and crossed her arms, shooting Stiles a deeply disapproving look. 

He tensed. “Told who what?” he asked, moving so he was blocking his bag. 

“After yesterday, we had a feeling that you’d try to sneak off by yourself.” She flicked her hair back. “So, where’re you going?”

He opened his mouth to lie about being prepared, about just organizing his stuff, and received a sharp, venomous glare from each of them. He sighed. “To the Queen of the South.” He sat on the edge of his bed, hunched forward so he didn’t hit the top bunk.

“ _Why?_ ”

“The plan was always to get away from everyone,” he said stiffly, glancing up at them. “To find somewhere safe to put Dad and lead Della away. I just…got delayed when I realized you guys were here, and then when she attacked Mad Hollow.” 

They glanced at each other.

Stiles fortified himself. “But actually, it’s perfect, knowing you guys are here. I can leave knowing Dad’s safe with you.” He swallowed and found his throat was bone dry. “Her little henchmen keep finding me, trying to kill other people because of me. So I have to go.”

Lydia’s jaw clenched. “We’re _all_ going.”

“No!”

“Yes!” she snapped. “We aren’t separating again, we can’t—we just…just found you. No.”

He shook his head. “No, I can’t let you—the boat is relatively-” He couldn’t. It was safe, Boyd and Lydia were here, it was perfect for keeping John out of harm’s way. And… “You guys don’t understand what she’s trying to do, what she’s _capable_ of doing.” 

“So help us understand,” Boyd said. “You want us to just abandon you when you’ll be in danger, and you would _never_ do the same if it were us, so you need to give us a damn good reason.”

He licked his lips nervously, gaze darting between the two of them, their angry, scared expressions. They weren’t wrong, and he owed it to them, and maybe…maybe if they understood better, they would go along with his plan. “Okay.” He stood and held his hands out, fingers trembling just a little.

They took one each instantly, with no hesitation or question. 

Stiles locked their fingers together and grasped at their connections, pulled them taut and coiled close, bringing their minds into his. He didn’t really know what this spell was, only that his mom had shown him before she’d gotten sick; on his birthday, actually, she’d linked herself, Stiles, and John as a special gift, showing Stiles all of their favorite memories together, how much they loved him. He’d never done the spell with anyone else, but he had to show them how serious this was, how serious _he_ was. 

Lydia gasped, her hand tightening on his, while Boyd shuffled closer, his free hand going out to catch at Lydia’s, creating an uneven triangle. Once they were calmer, Stiles poured the spell into Della’s hold on him, invading her mind. 

She sensed his presence and furiously fought back, launching spells and attacks, but Stiles just dove deeper, dragging Lydia and Boyd with him. He threw blazing light over the shadowy, hidden parts of her mind, on all of her detailed plans. 

She would kill the queen and her elves and faeries would help her round up the remaining witches to kill them. Stiles Stilinski. Asher Clarke. Erin Greenwell. Sylvia Rochester. Martin Hernandez. All of them. Some thought they were hidden, that they were _safe_ , but she knew where they were and she knew they would try to defy her. She would stop them before they had a chance to take what was hers. She would have control and would shape the new world the way _she_ wanted it.

_Get out!_ she raged, and finally managed to dislodge them with a sharp jab. 

Stiles let go of their hands and shook himself, trying to rid the chill of Della’s mind. 

Lydia looked at Boyd, her face pale as moonlight. 

“She means to take over,” Stiles said quietly. “To be the sole provider of food, controlling who gets to eat, where they get to live…”

Boyd was frowning. “Don’t you think whoever the Queen of the South is will stop her?”

“Not if she doesn’t know she’s coming.” He chewed his lip, sucking on the cut from yesterday. “She’s killed and absorbed power from a lot of witches, and I’ve fought her—she’s strong, getting stronger, and building an army now. I don’t even know if warning this queen will even help.”

Lydia held his gaze for a long moment and he thought he could actually see her mind working in the glimmer of her eyes, the tension around her mouth. “We have to fight back then,” she said at last, slowly. 

Boyd scoffed and shook his head. “No. Ari would never go for it.”

“Wouldn’t she?” Lydia murmured, crossing her arms tightly across her chest. 

“After Mad Hollow, she’s spoiling for a fight,” Stiles agreed. 

Boyd shook his head again, shooting Lydia a frustrated look. “I don’t think so. We’ve known them all a long time and Ari wants to protect her crew more than she wants a fight.” 

Lydia’s jaw clenched. “Maybe. Unless we convince her to fight.”

“How? Do you really think she’s going to risk Ripley’s life, Asher’s, Jamel or Nadine or Rosalva, or anyone here for revenge?”

“If you guys can talk her into rounding up people to fight back against Della…”

Lydia’s eyes gleamed with fear, but she said, “Yes, we’ll have to. We could meet up at the settlement once we’ve gathered people.”

Boyd put his hands up. “Guys. Ari’s life is this boat, her family is this crew. I want to stop Della, too, but I don’t think Ari’s going to leave it, no matter what we say. She won’t _want_ to.”

Stiles looked back at his bag, unseeing, going over every random, unnecessary stop they’d made since the destruction of Mad Hollow, and thought it wouldn’t be as hard to convince her as Boyd thought. “We have to do it.” He looked up.

Lydia looked upset but determined, her jaw set, calculating expression in place, while Boyd seemed more afraid and frustrated, glaring at the floor. 

“I know—I know you guys don’t want us to split up and I get it, I want us all to stay together, too, but we _need_ help to face Della and I can’t—can’t risk everyone’s lives when I could be doing something to help and drawing her away. It’s…important.”

Lydia grimaced. 

“Ari and the crew could recruit people,” Boyd said finally. “They don’t need us to do that and we could go with you. The boat isn’t _that_ much safer,” he added stubbornly. 

Stiles couldn’t look at either of them; it _hurt_ , pushing them away, these two people who were a huge part of him, but if he couldn’t be sure they were safer with him than away, he’d rather distance himself and draw Della away than risk getting them killed or maimed. 

Lydia was the one who spoke up. “If we’re the ones out recruiting people, we’ll have a better chance of finding everyone while he’s trying to warn the Queen of the South.” She looked at Stiles when he flinched, then Boyd. “That’s why he wants us to stay.”

“I can’t look for them while I’ve got a target on my back,” he said quietly. “I’d be putting _more_ people I care about in danger.” 

Boyd’s jaw ticked, annoyed. “We should stick together.”

“I understand why, and—I want that, too.” Stiles wiped his nose and looked at both of them. “But what if you guys find Danny or Scott? Erica or Jackson?” He smiled tentatively and felt the fragile bloom of hope in both of them. 

Boyd sighed at last, shoulders slumping. “Let’s go talk to Ari.” 

The three of them went to the top deck together; Stiles grimaced when he felt the rush of air. The sky was slate gray and gloomy, and the air was sticky and humid in a way that made simply existing feel like an unfortunate miscalculation. Stiles half expected to choke when he inhaled, but it was merely unpleasant. 

“Ugh, this is perfect,” Boyd muttered. 

Ari was standing outside her cabin with Asher, stripped over her usual jacket and pants for patchwork shorts and a tank top as a concession to the humidity. Her hair looked…bigger than normal, and her scales were out again, peppered along her shoulders and arms in gleams of copper. 

Beside her, Asher was basically wearing the same outfit, holding one of the chickens in his arms as he explained something about weather magic, tilting his chin back to gesture at the sails without letting go.

Stiles glanced at Boyd, then Lydia; he didn’t want to go alone, but he didn’t want John to overhear him yet, either. “Dad-”

“Is with Alden and Wyatt in the galley,” Lydia said. “He went down to help with lunch before we went to check on you.”

“Why _did_ you come to check on me?”

“We told you, after yesterday, we thought you might try to sneak off by yourself.” Lydia brushed her hair off her face. “That was an incredible display of power, according to Asher, and I thought you’d be afraid you’d hurt someone.”

Stiles shrugged, staring down. “I mean, I already did, right? Rosalva put stitches in Boyd’s face.”

Boyd punched his shoulder in what might’ve been a friendly move, had it not nearly knocked him off his feet. “That was an accident.”

Stiles scowled, rubbing the bruise. “Yeah and I feel a lot less guilty about it now.” He glanced at Asher, but he was still talking to Ari. “Look,” he said quietly, “we aren’t supposed to be able to do physical magic from that far away. Yesterday shouldn’t have happened.”

“Boyd told me. Are you _sure_ you helped?” Lydia lifted a brow. “You might’ve just panicked when you felt their distress and set off the cars, which _wouldn’t_ be outside of your normal capabilities.” 

“They were…really surprised.” Stiles plucked at the bandage on his right arm. “And I’ve never felt like that before—that much power. And,” he added with a frown, “I didn’t feel the deaths. I killed whoever or whatever was attacking them, but I didn’t get a power rush. That’s…also never happened.”

Lydia said, “Huh,” and continued to look unconvinced. 

Maybe the Hales had gotten away on their own, right as Stiles was panicking. It didn’t explain _why_ they’d been so baffled, but it seemed more likely than Stiles doing a blasting spell _through_ his connection to them. “I don’t know,” he said aloud. “Maybe you’re right, but it doesn’t matter. We have to talk to Ari,” he reminded them. 

“Should we get Ripley, too?” Boyd wondered. “Those three have been on the boat and together the longest, since before Ari’s…” He trailed off, looking embarrassed. 

“Yeah, probably,” Stiles said quickly, sweeping past the awkward moment as if it hadn’t happened. He flung his senses across the ship and found Ripley. “He’s…up high.”

“Come on then, Asher will get him.” Lydia caught their hands and marched them across the deck. 

Ari looked at them as they approached, tearing her glowing-copper eyes away from the chicken that now looked distinctly nervous, as if it’d realized it was in the presence of a predator. 

Asher set the hen down and shooed her away. “You guys okay? You look upset.”

“Uh-huh.” Stiles wiped his hands on his pants. “We need to talk to you, though. Um—all—three of you?”

Lydia rolled her eyes. “Can you get Ripley? It involves him.”

Ari narrowed her eyes. “What’s going on?”

“It’s important,” Boyd assured her in his quiet, steady voice that he’d used plenty of times during their teenage shenanigans to get them out of trouble. 

Ari nodded and eased back while Asher muttered under his breath, gaze focused on the masts. 

A moment later, Ripley jumped down, making Stiles flinch.

“He’s going to break his ankles,” he muttered, and flushed when Lydia laughed at him. 

“I would never land sloppily enough to break my ankles,” Ripley grumbled, offended, as he joined their huddle. They must have looked completely suspicious, but no one interrupted them. The crew’s trust in Ari was so unwavering that they didn’t question that she would tell them if it was important. “What’s going on?” 

Stiles glanced at Lydia, then Boyd, and was met with two stony expressions. He guessed, since he was splitting everyone up, he’d be the one presenting the plan. He huffed and looked back at the others. “We—we need to do something about Della Summers.”

Ari’s eyes gleamed like new pennies in the sun. “Yes.”

Stiles nodded, swallowing, and tried not to feel like a mouse cornered by a cat. “I still need to find the Queen of the South, but—but with your boat and your crew, you could go around, recruiting people to stand up to her.” 

Ripley’s face screwed up. “What?” he spat. “You-”

“She’s building an army,” Stiles hurried to say. “So that she can take over. She has it in for witches-” his gaze darted to Asher- “and strong leaders.” He looked at Ari. “The only way we can be sure we don’t end up completely at her mercy-” he shared a grim smile with Asher- “or dead is to fight back. We don’t have enough numbers to do that yet, but if we recruit people…maybe.” 

Ari nodded, jaw clenching, mouth curling up in a smirk. “I still owe her for Mad Hollow.”

“Right.” He swallowed. “Look, I don’t know if the _queen_ will help us or be any better than Della, but Della is afraid of her, afraid to confront her so far, even though she does plan to take her on once she has my and Asher’s magic. We can use that, if I can convince the queen to fight her.” He clenched his fists. “But with nature spirits at her disposal, we need more than just a few fighters, we need everyone we can get.” 

“We need an army,” Ari said. She straightened her shoulders. “Okay. We’ll go recruiting.” She glanced at Ripley, then Asher. “You guys with me?”

Ripley’s brows were furrowed, mouth turned down in a deep frown, but he nodded sharply, like he was annoyed to be asked. 

“Of course,” Asher said softly, shifting his stance just slightly and suddenly the three of them looked like a unit rather than a loose group. 

Stiles looked away. “Okay! The plan is for me to go to the Queen of the South, so I figure we can meet at her settlement. I mean, I have to find it first, so…”

“Two weeks,” Ripley muttered. 

Ari nodded. “We’ll recruit for two weeks, then meet at the settlement with whoever we manage to get.” She smirked again. “I want to kick her ass, of course I’ll meet you.”

Stiles realized how surprised he must have looked and winced. 

“The boat will be here when we’re done,” she added with a grimace. 

“Right,” he said, strained. “I—I um—I’ll be right b-back.”

“Stiles-” Lydia started, but he waved her off, shooting a blind smile at her before stumbling away. 

He staggered to the stairs and up to the hull, slapping his hands on the taffrail and gripping tight enough to numb his fingers. A hot breeze brushed over his face, ruffling his hair, doing nothing more than stirring the humid air around him. Pain lanced through his head and he gasped, bowing forward, forehead braced against the rail. His eyes watered, blinded as Della attacked his mind, battering at his feeble mental shields, seeking revenge for his invasion earlier. 

_I’m going to kill you, that pirate bitch, and the collective’s brat!_ she raged, clawing at his mind and leaving his shields in tatters. 

He smiled. _Not if we kill you first._ He shuddered as she dug through his mind, an ice pick to the brain, and drove a spell at her, bouncing her out and him in. He could feel her rage all around him, buffeting him like a blizzard, her absolute belief that she was right, a shining pillar of strength at her center. The elves and the fey already called her Queen Della, and she intended to have _everyone_ do the same. 

_Enjoy it while you can,_ he told her, and squeezed his eyes shut. He wasn’t sure he could do it, but he had to try. He clenched his jaw and forced his magic inward, a strange sensation, and sent it raging down his link with Della.

Her scream made his ears ring as if she was standing right next to him, and her pain flung him out, shields slamming in place like steel doors. 

He stayed bowed over for a moment, breathing hard. He’d managed to hurt her; he didn’t think it was a physical hurt, just a mental pain like when he dug into her mind, but it was still something he wasn’t normally capable of. A psychic spell that caused actual pain instead of just a message or feelings. He inhaled slowly and layered protections over his mind. He knew she’d be preparing to get him back soon, just as soon as she figured out how to keep him from attacking her again.

Jamel stepped up beside him. “Are you okay?”

He nodded and straightened, peeling his fingers off the rail one at a time; they stung as blood slowly returned to them. He glanced over Jamel’s shoulder, spotted Lydia and Boyd watching him from the deck, and looked away. “Della is going to kill Ari and Asher.”

Jamel flinched, his face twisting with maybe pain before he smoothed out his expression. “We won’t let that happen.”

Stiles nodded. They had a plan, and it would work. It had to work.


	23. Chapter 23

John packed his bag as Stiles had, rolling his clothes and blankets tightly and tucking his supplies in snug so they wouldn’t rattle around. He knew Stiles was watching, obvious from the tension in his shoulders, but he didn’t turn or acknowledge him in any way. He considered a stack of bandages Rosalva had given him and tucked them into a jar. 

Stiles inhaled to speak.

“We already talked about this. I’m not letting you go off alone.”

He scowled. “Yeah, I heard you the first time, but that doesn’t change how dangerous it is. I have magical powers. You have a gun. Do the math.” 

“Nope.” He zipped his bag and turned around. “I won’t, and I’m not arguing with you again. If you’re leaving this ship, I’m going with you.”

Stiles closed his mouth. He could find a way to force John to stay, but he didn’t want to hurt him, and they were getting too close to the drop off point, Ari called it, for him to figure a safer way out.

John nodded. “Now tell me how you convinced Boyd and Lydia to stay behind?” He looked pained as he said it, unhappy that they were splitting up again.

Stiles shrugged, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe and shifting his gaze aside. “They want to find everyone else, and they’ll have a better chance of finding them if they’re sailing around recruiting fighters.”

“And what are we doing?” The fierce way he emphasized “we” made Stiles wince.

He’d really been banking on leaving John in the midst of the crew, all of them powerful supernaturals, instead of wandering around, exposed, with him. “ _We_ are going to find the Queen of the South to warn her about Della, just like you wanted.”

John nodded. “Okay. Good.”

Stiles contemplated locking John in the room they’d been sharing, but suspected someone would let him out before Stiles could get very far. He _would_ feel better, knowing exactly where John was, if him staying on the boat wasn’t an option. He scrubbed his hands over his face, frustrated. Other than placing John in a preservation shield like he’d done for the bombs, he couldn’t think of a better way to keep him safe, and that spell would leave Stiles drained for days, unable to fight or protect himself from Della. 

“Hey, are you guys hungry?” Alden asked from the hallway. He was holding a tray when Stiles turned around, hovering like he wasn’t sure of his welcome, although he had been forcing food on both of them since Ari had told the crew their plan. “I have some supplies wrapped up for you, too—food, that is. Asher is in the galley putting spells on the wrapping, but I don’t think it’s going well.”

“I’ll go help. Thank you, Alden,” he added as he slipped past, smiling briefly. He was surprised Wyatt wasn’t right behind him, but Stiles also had the feeling that Wyatt had been avoiding him and John since they’d said they were leaving, a day and a half before. He sighed and pushed open the galley door. 

Asher cursed at a pile of cloth bundles on the counter, slamming the side of his fist down where Alden normally prepared food.

Nadine hovered uncertainly by the stove, her hair bound back in a braid that looked like Rosalva’s work. 

“Do you need help?”

Asher looked up sharply, then cursed again. “No, I—yes. Yes, I can’t figure the spell out.” He stepped back and gestured at the cloths with a weary look on his face. “It’s just a preservation spell, I should-” He inhaled sharply and scowled. 

“I can do it,” Stiles said. “Thank you for trying.” He glanced at Nadine as he passed. 

“I’ll be right back,” Asher sighed. “Don’t go anywhere.” He left at a half-jog.

Stiles turned to the food bundles and held his hand over them, casting Bizzy’s preservation spell on the cloths. It had been one of the most useful domestic-type spells he’d ever learned, and thinking about what might’ve happened if he hadn’t learned it made him frown. 

Nadine shuffled over so she could lean in and see his face. “Stiles, I, um, I wanted to apologize again-”

“It wasn’t your fault.” He finished the spell with a flick of his fingers and turned to meet her gaze, smiling to show he was serious. 

She smiled back, tension in her shoulders relaxing. “I still feel bad. It was my hands holding that knife, you know.” She cleared her throat and tucked loose hair behind her ear. “I also just…wanted to say goodbye, since I can’t go on land safely anymore.” She swallowed. “Asher and I are working on some spells to fix that, but…” She shrugged. 

“Right.” He wasn’t sure how they would handle that, once it was time to meet up, but if anyone could figure it out, it was Asher. He made himself smile at her again. “Thanks. I really appreciate how much you’ve all helped us.”

She nodded, quirking a sad smile at him. “Just be safe out there, okay?”

“We will be.”

She darted in to hug him, then rushed out, head ducked like she was embarrassed. 

Asher returned as she was leaving, turning to watch her go before entering the galley. “Elf magic is different from ours,” he said quietly, shoulders slumping. “It’s taking forever to figure out how to keep her safe from being controlled again.” He had a book in his hands with a charred corner that he was fiddling with, fingers running over and over the scorch mark.

“That’s good. I finished these.” Stiles gestured at the food bundles. 

“Oh, good.” Asher cleared his throat and held the book out. “Here, I finally found this. It’s got spells in it that I’m sure will be new to you, so use it.” 

Stiles accepted it, examining the deep green leather cover with some moon symbols carved in it. It had a magical hum, the ink and paper protected from the elements, as well as something stronger that Stiles didn’t recognize. “I’ll try,” he replied, positive that he would fail at whatever garden or weather magic rested in the Book of Shadows. 

Asher smirked. “They’re battle spells.”

“ _What,_ seriously?” He flipped open to a random page eagerly. 

“Yep. I knew I had one, I just had to find it. There weren’t _many_ that survived in the collective building, but I’ve been gathering Books of Shadows since all of this started, so I had a lot to search through. I, um, I hope it’s useful to you.”

“I’m sure it will be, thank you.”

Asher smiled crookedly. “We try to take care of our own. I think Lise just gave John some guns, so I guess he’s set.”

“Oh, jeeze.” Stiles rubbed his left eye. “Yeah, I guess so.” He turned the book over in his hands. “I guess we’re getting close now.”

“Yeah. I think you can see where we’ll be dropping you off from the deck by now, if you guys are done packing and want to head up.”

Stiles nodded. “We just need, um, the food and—this.” He gathered the food bundles and took them to his and John’s room, where John, Alden, and, yes, Lise were all talking. “Here, Dad, food.” He passed him half of the bundles and turned to his own bag to pack his portion and the BoS Asher had given him. 

“I was just about to head up, if you’re ready.” He swung his bag over his shoulder after the food was packed away. 

“Yep.” Stiles put his own bag on, fiddling with the straps. “I’m ready.”

They trooped up the stairs as a group, gathering by the starboard side. Stiles could see a jungle in the distance, with huge, soaring trees dotting the horizon. He glanced sideways when Ari joined them, leaning on Asher’s side. “How do you know this is as close as you can get if you’ve never been to the settlement?”

“This land mass blocks us for hundreds of miles, but we’ve taken other witches here, trying to find the settlement.” Ari shrugged. “They’ve all been very sure this is the right direction.”

“We’re pretty sure the settlement is deep in the middle of all that,” Asher piped up. “But we can’t get closer with the boat.” 

“Why do we have to split up?” Wyatt was behind them with his arms crossed, scowl on his usually sunny face. 

“Because it’s safer this way,” Alden said patiently. 

“We’re all really powerful together,” Wyatt pointed out. “Stiles and I escaped a ship full of elves on our own.”

Stiles winced at the reminder. “We need people and we need to recruit the Queen of the South, so it’ll be faster if we’re split up. I know it sucks,” he added. 

Wyatt nodded reluctantly. “I guess I’ll work on getting better with my powers while we look for people.” He glanced at Alden, then pulled something from his back pocket and grinned. “Here, you can have these.” 

It was a little gray notebook and a slightly cracked Bic pen; the notebook had a few written-on pages in the front, but the rest were blank, if slightly water damaged, and the pen was still full of ink. 

“I found them yesterday,” Wyatt bragged with another bright grin.

“ _Where?_ ” 

He shrugged, eyes gleaming.

“Well, thank you. This will be…extremely useful.” 

Wyatt beamed, like the sun coming out, and bounced on his toes. “I thought so. You can show me what you’ve written when we all meet up again.’

“Yeah, I’ll do that.” He blinked hard and turned back to the trees in the distance. They’d probably be there by sunset. His eyes stung. He just didn’t want to leave Lydia and Boyd, that was all. 

They reached land just before sunset, like Stiles had guessed. The whole crew was on deck, watching the black sand beach and impossibly tall trees grow closer and closer in silence. Ari got as close as she could without bottoming-out the ship and had Jamel drop anchor while she addressed Stiles and John. “Be careful, okay? We didn’t keep you guys alive just for you to get eaten now.”

John laughed. “We appreciate that, and we’ll be as careful as we can be.”

Stiles nodded and Ari nodded back and that was really all there was to say. Good luck. Don’t die.

Ari glanced over her shoulder and side stepped. “I’ll go get the ladder.” As she walked away, Lydia and Boyd approached, looking miserable. 

Lydia hugged John first, then Stiles, taking a moment to roughly straighten his jacket.

“We’ll see you soon,” Stiles said quietly. 

Her eyes snapped up to glare at him. “Of course you will, because you are going to be smart and make it to the settlement in one piece, where you will wait for us and the reinforcements.”

“Of course.”

“Good.” She wiped her eyes quickly and went back to John, managing a wobbly smile for him. 

Boyd gave Stiles a tight hug, then stepped back with a grim expression. “We’re going to find them.”

“We will.” Stiles swallowed and made himself breathe before he spoke, addressing both of them. “I’m going to be leaving magical markers as we go, and only you two and Asher will be able to see them. You’ll be able to follow those to us.” He nodded and tried to sound confident when he said, “We’ll be okay.”

“Of course you will,” Ari chirped as she passed with the ladder. “You’ve got Sheriff to watch your back.” 

It made John laugh and Stiles smile, tension breaking finally. 

Stiles helped Ari lower the ladder over the side. 

“The plan is going to work. We’re badasses, and we can take one witch down.” Ari’s easy confidence was infectious, bolstering Stiles’s own deflating mood. 

“Yeah, probably.” They braced the ladder in the coarse sand and against the rail, checking its integrity as well as they could. 

Stiles looked at the jungle looming before them, the shadows cast by the high trees, the dark spaces between the trunks, and cast his senses impulsively, an instinctive check of his surroundings when he couldn’t physically look for danger. 

The Hales felt driven, purpose giving them a bright pulse of energy in the back of his mind. He didn't know where they were going, but they did, and that made him…hopeful. He felt a flicker, that faint connection he’d been sensing for weeks, before looming danger overtook it. He put his hand out, stopping John from approaching the ladder. “Something is wrong.” 

“What?” Ari let go of the ladder and turned, scanning the ocean. “Where?”

Stiles shook his head. It was just a faint sense, an awareness like they were being watched, and he couldn’t pinpoint it. He sought it out, following it with his magic, but it felt like it was coming from every direction. The trees in front of them, the setting sun beyond the stern, the fading dark to the north. He looked at John, panicked. 

By the stern, Jamel yelped. He stumbled into view a second later, fighting to untangle purple ivy from around his legs. 

Something cool and heavy slapped across Stiles’s wrist, tightening and yanking him off balance before he knew what was going on. Bright, neon yellow vines were creeping over the rail, onto the ship, while the one latched around Stiles’s wrist tried to pull him overboard. 

“Elves!” Nadine’s voice rang out like a bell from the port side. 

Stiles braced against the rail. He clapped his left hand over the vine on his wrist, incinerating it. 

John swore and leapt back from the edge, stamping on creeping white ivy that was trying to catch his legs. 

Ari leaned over and blew fire along the starboard rail, burning all but the white ivy, which seemed resistant to the flames. 

Stiles turned as the boat rocked and swore. 

A green and orange braided vine ladder swung up over the port side, and elves had begun to board. 

Wyatt swung down from the platform and threw his hands out, knocking four of them right back over the edge. 

The boat shuddered and rocked, tipping dangerously to the right. 

“They’re trying to pull us ashore!” Ari snapped. “There aren’t that many, come on!”

A tree burst out of the water, all tangled, thorny branches and sharp red leaves. It slammed down on the deck, knocking Rosalva and Alden off their feet. 

Stiles and Asher ran to the tree. “Take the other side?” Stiles suggested. 

“Yeah, we can burn it.” Asher skirted the branches, hands up in case it moved. 

More vines lashed across the deck, tightening like snakes. 

Lise and Jamel ran to the port side; Jamel froze when she thrust a gun in his hands. 

Lise began firing, holding her ground even as the ship rocked and swayed closer to shore. 

Stiles put his hands up at the tree. “Ready?”

“Yeah,” Asher replied. 

They heated the wood slowly, wary of sending burning bark flying all over the ship. Smoke coiled up from the center trunk and the tree shuddered. Leaves flew off of it.

One slashed across Stiles’s shoulder and another his leg, leaving bleeding, paper thin cuts. 

The boat began to tip.

Wyatt knocked into Stiles. “Sorry,” he gasped and careened into the starboard rail where it was bending under the pressure of the vines. He flung his hands out and pushed, leaning forward. 

The boat rumbled and heaved away from the beach. 

Fire crackled within the tree. 

Lise screamed. 

Stiles whipped around when she thumped to the deck, caught under a net made of twined purple and blue flowers that were leaving livid red welts all across her face and arms. 

Rosalva lunged, getting to her before Stiles could manage more than a step. She yanked the net off and flung it into the water, dragging Lise away from the fight. 

“Stiles, the tree,” Asher said, strained. 

Stiles twisted and found the tree branches burrowing into the boat. “ _Fuck._ ” He put his hands up and curled his fingers in, heating it further. 

Asher looked over his shoulder and grunted, waving a hand at the port side rail. 

Water arced into view, looming high and casting a wavering shadow, but before it could crash down, it rippled strangely, turning in on itself, and splashed over their deck instead of the elves. 

Stiles sputtered as steam blew at his face from the tree. The water doused their flames. Growling, he thrust his fist out and squeezed. 

The tree shattered. 

A gunshot cracked through the air, followed by a splash. “Nice shot, Sheriff,” Ari called.

Stiles turned. 

Elves boarded from the port side.

John faced them, gun held up to fire again. 

Ari grabbed a handful of the vines attempting to capsize her ship and set them on fire with her palms. She launched into the air, wings snapping out and blocking the sun, and wheeled over the small boat the elves had arrived on, dropping the flaming vines on the deck. 

The elves still on the boat yelped with panic while the six others made it to the rail.

Stiles ran to Boyd and Lydia. “You guys need to get below deck now.”

“No!” Lydia shook him off. “We’re armed and we can fight.” She took aim and shot, clipping an elf with slate gray hair on the shoulder. 

Stiles stepped back, frustrated, and put his foot down on a limp coil of red roots. They sprang to life and wrapped around his ankle.. He hit the deck with a grunt, twisting as the roots dragged him toward the stern. He put his hand back and blasted, hoping his aim was right. 

A rope pile exploded. 

Stiles’s legs banged into Ari’s cabin. He braced against it and sat up, flinging a blasting spell at the roots dragging him across the boat. 

They burst into flames. 

He kicked them off while they were writhing with animal-like pain and got up unsteadily, wiping his face. His hand came away red. He inhaled sharply as he looked up. 

Ripley jumped from his perch on the mast and Stiles almost thought he’d knock all the elves right off the rail in one fell swoop. His wings stretched out to their impressive length. 

An elf with vibrant green eyes turned as he got close and put his hand out. A heavy-looking branch appeared in his palm and he gave it a homerun swing, slamming it across Ripley’s chest. 

It knocked him flat with a horrible _crack_ ; he hit the deck in a crumpled heap.

Asher snarled, hands sparking, and ran to him. 

Nadine lifted her head. Glowing seaweeds lashed out of the water like whips and wrapped around a blue haired elf’s throat, yanking her into the water. Nadine was skilled in combat, more than Stiles had realized, but outnumbered. For every elf she knocked away, another boarded, soaking wet from abandoning the boat Ari had set on fire. 

Stiles shoved past Alden and Jamel and thrust both fists out in front of him, then yanked them in toward his chest. 

Three of eight elves crumpled to ash and the rush was heady, powerful, bright. Stiles flung his senses out, searching, giddy, and turned in place like a dancer, fluid and graceful. Two more ships full of elves approached from the stern, from the west, the sun slowly setting behind them. He scrambled for the stern, shoving past Wyatt and John and scrambling onto the rail. With his magic singing inside, he lifted his hands and flicked them at the closest ship. 

The explosion was fiery and colorful, an eruption of golden-orange tongues of fire chasing the sky, reaching out like seeking hands. Splintered wood and the red haze of blood sprayed the air while steam coiled from the heated water, the shock waves rocking the ship Stiles stood on. The noise was deafening, but it didn’t compare to the howl of his magic inside, like the roar of a wildfire.

Stiles laughed as the kills fanned the flames inside higher, giddy and powerful. He turned and found the ship nearly overrun with plants, wolfsbane and strangling vines and roots pulling them to shore, where the elves would be the most powerful.

Ari was at the bow setting fire to the wolfsbane creeping up on her, keeping it away from Alden. 

He was crumpled behind her, bleeding from welts all over his body; a few feet away, Nadine slashed a sharp blade through an elf’s throat. 

Stiles jumped down and threw his left hand out, palm down, fingers hooked into claws, and dragged it toward himself.

The wolfsbane lit up first, bursting into blue-green flames, and the roots followed, smoldering to ash. 

Stiles turned his attention to the elf closest to John, slicing his hand in front of him.

The elf toppled to pieces. 

John stared at Stiles. 

“Ari!” Nadine yelled. “There’s more, we have to get away from shore!”

Ari caught an elf by the throat and squeezed, watching hungrily as she burned to ash. When she let go, her eyes were reptilian, scales breaking out across her arms and nose. “Why?” she growled. 

Nadine kicked the elf she was fighting away. “Because we’re not as strong when we’re at sea,” she snarled. “We move out further, they get weaker.”

“Try it,” an elf snapped. 

Stiles punched his fist out.

Fire shot through the elf’s chest like an arrow. He collapsed. The vines crept over him, dragging him away like the tide. 

“Her Majesty wants to kill you herself.” The voice wasn’t very loud, but the smug, gloating tone drew Stiles’s attention. The answer, however, made his blood go cold.

“Oh, yeah?” John replied. “We’ll see.” He fired. 

Stiles turned, hands lifted, mouth twisted in a snarl, and hesitated when he found John standing over the elf, looking exasperated. Stiles hurled a blast spell at the elf behind him, spattering everything nearby with gore. He was panting, he felt like he was going to vibrate out of his skin, his blood felt like lava and glitter pumping wildly through his veins. 

Ari thumped to the deck and grabbed John’s arm, then Stiles’s, yanking them close. “You two need to go. We can handle this.”

“Are you crazy?” Stiles snapped. 

“Yes.”

“We are being invaded!”

“No.” She shook him. “We’re _winning._ But we have to lure them away from you guys because you’ll be on land, where they’re stronger, and there’ll only be two of you. Meet Asher and Ripley by the ladder and go.” She smirked, exposing her fangs. “See you in two weeks, Stilinskis.” She shoved them.

John nodded and ran across the ship, ducking the grasping roots pouring from the hands of an elf. 

Stiles said, “Damn it,” and followed him. 

Ripley was at the ladder already, helping John down, when he reached them. He had a red mark across his face and blood on his shirt, but he was fit enough to take one look at Stiles and throw him overboard. 

He hit the water with a gurgling shout and kicked to the surface just as John dropped gently off the ladder. “What the hell?” he snarled. 

Asher touched his shoulder. “You’re on fire,” he said uneasily. 

Stiles looked at his hands. Flames were indeed jumping off his palms, dancing up his arms and along his fingertips, impervious to the water. “Jeeze.”

“Come on, the faster we get you two to land, the faster we can go back to help.”

The swim was short, which just showed how alarmingly close to shore the ship was. As they waded onto the beach, a roar ripped through the air. 

Stiles whipped around, his boots slipping over the rocks in the shallow water. “We shouldn’t have left them,” he hiccupped. He felt strange, jittery and hyper like he’d had coffee laced with crack. “We could’ve helped.” Flames wrapped over his arms, but he didn’t feel the heat, just saw the blaze of them. 

Asher grabbed him, sending steam into the air. His hands were like ice, locked around Stiles’s wrists. “You need to calm down and focus.” He shook him. “ _Hey._ Do you have any idea how many elves you killed? Don’t let your magic get away from you.”

He inhaled sharply. Exhaled. Panic receded. The jittery feeling remained, but fear wasn’t controlling it now, he was. The flames died down.

“You guys need to find the settlement so we have somewhere to go. Look!” he snapped when Stiles’s gaze drifted back to the ship. “We can handle the elves! You guys have to go.”

Stiles swallowed. “Okay.” He eyed the ship coming from the west, the two coming from the north.

The lone ship in the west shuddered, then capsized in a slow roll.

“See?” Asher clapped him on the arm. “We’ll see you guys soon.”

“We—we should make a marker here, so you guys can know where we went in.” 

“Good idea.”

He felt John and Ripley watching them but had to ignore them in order to focus. His and Asher’s magic twined and burrowed into the spell, lifting a mound of sand. A column of whirring air and flames rose from the mound, stretching into the sky.

It was clear Ripley and John couldn’t see it, but it was meant only to be seen by the person it was created for, so that just meant it was working. 

Stiles shook flames off his hands and looked at Ripley, then Asher. “Good luck.’

“You too.”

Ripley just nodded at them and looped an arm around Asher’s waist, knees bending before they launched into the air. They dipped dangerously before Ripley’s wings snapped out, catching them before they could crash into the coarse sand. They flew past Ari’s ship, over one of the elf ships, and Asher began launching spells, bursts of flame and water, ice and harsh wind. The ship was moving gradually out to sea, away from the beach, away from them.

John nudged Stiles. “We should go.” 

It took a moment for him to tear his eyes away from the ship. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “Okay.” They turned together and faced the trees, dripping and dejected, cut off from their people…again.

The trees were soaring as high as the marker Stiles and Asher had made, with thick trunks, deep green bark, and fluffy brown and blue leaves, set close together. Stiles straightened his shoulders and started walking. The trees were so tightly packed that they had to walk single file to get into the jungle at all. The roots were raised to knee height, making an easy stroll impossible. Stiles figured, as he clambered over the first few, he should’ve guessed. He turned to help John over, his boots sinking into the silvery clay-like dirt underfoot.

John landed on his feet, disgruntled. “Should be fun.”

“Uh-huh.” Stiles looked up at the trees. With the sun already setting and such a thick canopy, they’d be stumbling around in the pitch black in no time. “You think we should find cover?”

“Yeah.” John rubbed his eyes. “Who knows what’s going to be out hunting in here after dark?”

Stiles eyed the shadows around them. He hadn’t had time to think of that yet. He nodded. “Okay, so objective one: find shelter.”

“Yep.”

Stiles kept his senses spread out as they walked, picking their way around roots and strange, prickly pink bushes. He felt that connection he couldn’t identify, hovering at the back of his mind, but he didn’t have the energy to spare prodding at it. He could sense _life_ beyond his line of sight, curious living things, aggressive and abstract, like animals, too close. He stuck to John like a shadow. 

“I somehow doubt we’re going to find a convenient cave,” John sighed as the light grew fainter, graying everything around them. 

“We can’t just sleep out in the open.” A twig snapped. Stiles flinched. 

The trees grew further apart the deeper they went, enough that they could walk side by side at last. 

“Maybe up in a tree?” John suggested. 

Stiles shuddered. “I don’t think that would help us much.” He glanced over his shoulder, then up at the trees. “There are big cats in here, I think. That, um, will be able to get to us up there.”

“Oh, perfect.” He shook his head. “I’m sure we’ll find something.”

“Uh-huh.” Stiles just needed something _semi_ enclosed that he could make secure, put up defenses. He’d take an alcove or some kind of cliff at this point. He chewed his lip as they slowed to a crawl, the descending night forcing them to watch their every step to keep from eating dirt. 

“Here,” John said suddenly, throwing his arm out to stop Stiles from passing him. He turned his Maglite on the tree next to them. 

Its roots were raised high out of the dirt, like a burrow, with small roots webbing across the open space. Something with a lot of legs scurried across the circle of light.

Stiles waved John back and put his hands up. He was still juiced from the fight: a finger flick sent flames rushing into the burrow, burning out the thin, trailing roots and whatever had made a home in there. He felt along the roots and ground with his magic, ensuring nothing was left. “Okay,” he breathed, leading John in. The tree was above their heads, barely, and it was humid, warm under it. Stiles put ice around the walls, the roof, to fortify them just in case anything collapsed. He examined the sheets of ice and began casting perimeter spells, alarms, camouflage to keep them as invisible as possible. He needed to-

“Stiles, stop.” John stepped in front of him, hands up. “Stop. Take a breath.”

He stopped, staring into his father’s tired face, and slumped. “What am I doing, Dad?” He dropped his gaze, guilt and shame welling up in his eyes. 

“Trying to survive.” His voice was gentle, understanding, and made Stiles’s throat ache. 

He shook his head; he wanted to be a kid again, when things were easier and his dad took care of things for him. “We shouldn’t have left Boyd and Lydia behind.” He pressed his fist to his mouth. 

John dropped a hand on his shoulder. “They can take care of each other until we meet up again, okay?” He waited until Stiles nodded to squeeze his shoulder. “We’ll meet the Queen of the South and warn her, let her know we’re recruiting to fight Della, and Lydia, Boyd, and the others will catch up—hopefully with an army.”

Stiles laughed. “Yeah, hopefully.” He used his palm to wipe his cheeks and cleared his throat. “Let me finish this.” He put one more layer of protection around their burrow, a spell to dampen their life forces, then slumped to the ground, rubbing his eyes. “God, I’m tired.” He pulled his backpack off and set it in his lap.

John sat beside him and stretched his legs out with a groan. 

“And I miss having a bed already,” Stiles added. 

John laughed. “Yeah, me too.” He braced his back against the wall and closed his eyes. “Goodnight, Stiles.”

Stiles sighed. “G’night.”

John’s mouth quirked up. “Love you, kid.”

“Love you, too, old man.” He laughed when John kicked at him blindly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY, so that's part 2 of **four** done. I know there was like, invisible Sterek in this, so I'll try to tag more appropriately for the next one; it's more Stiles-centric and plot-driven than some people were expecting, I guess! My bad. I am trying to learn how to describe characters without info dumping or overdoing it, and I was using this series to do it, so...I hope it's enjoyable! :D 
> 
> The third one is still not quite finished, so I suspect it won't be up until early **December** , possibly mid-December. I'm working on it, I promise! I hope you enjoyed this adventure <3 <3 <3


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